Everyday I'm Shufflekiin
by skullanddog
Summary: Down-on-his-luck Nord Skole discovers an unorthodox way to rid Skyrim of its dragon problem.
1. Angi's Grove

1

I was chillin with my best brother Margeth down by Angi's Grove about half a mile from the Border. Margeth said he'd encountered a Khajit earlier in the day and that had left him with some skooma. Being of a generous disposition, Margeth was about to share around what he had, when there from the valley we heard a-screaming.

Now we'd been camped there a good month, Margeth and me, as it was our luck to stumble upon a meadow near black with deathbell, which as I'm sure you know can be ground up with a little bone meal or thistle and honeycomb to make a dreadful fatigue poison. Our intention was to gather and dry as much deathbell as we could carry before returning to Whiterun and netting ourselves a tidy fortune from the poisons.

It's a tricky area, there on the tundra south of Angi's Camp, where our grove and its attachment meadow was but one of the millions of pockets of frigid water stopped by the difficult terrain from joining the rushing river dividing Skyrim from Cyrodiil. Folks aren't half as common as beasts there. Still it was more'n once we heard the lament of one bandit meeting another.

Margeth wasn't going to worry about it, though I lain hand to the rusty iron sword I'd found lying in the grass by a dead bandit. I ain't no corpse thief; I swear it was lying near him, not'n his hand. Then we heard this shout, a chillin chorus if I've ever heard one (and I was with Harger the Older when we fetched Jarry's younger from Dead Man's Respite). A woman, in that all-too common Cyrodiil accent,

"For the Empire!"

Poor Margeth has a mouthful of mead we should've been saving, which he half spat out and half choked on as he struggled not to waste the rest. I pushed his face down into the tundra grass hoping it might quieten him. I went down, too. No matter we were under the trees on the high bank of the Grove; no point in providing a pretty target.

We heard a bit more shouting, and it got to be clear to us this wasn't a couple'a bandits hustlin a pelt hunter.

"Reckon sommer Ulfrick's boys gotta tooth into the 'perials," is what I said to Margeth while he spluttered, his face just as red as a Daedra heart.

Keeping real low we crawled over to the bit of a verge near where we had our crates of deathbell. We could see straight down the slope to the river and the far bank that was Cyrodiil, though why any bastard would want to jump that rope I swear I'll never understand. Heard they arrest a man for pickin up a fork in those parts, and if he resists then they cut him down on the spot.

But I digress. Margeth and me had ourselves a look on down the slope. Sure enough, further down near the gully the sun was skittering off buffed steel armour and buffed bronze arms and the poorly-covered blonde heads of our brother Nords.

I counted six blonde heads and three silver ones. I'll admit to you now that I relaxed. Can you blame a fellah? 'perials beat that lot they'd more'n likely mosey on up here and decide Margeth and I were Cloakers too. Happens all the time on the Border. People go a little insane tryin to figure out which one is who, the Nordic 'perials and the 'perial Nords and the Nordic Nords and 'perial 'perials. Me in those days was doing an admirable job of keeping m'head down outta politics and it was before I ever knew Ulfrick from a gold Septim. All I wanted was t'keep drinkin and shootin skooma and watchin the deathbell dry. It'd been a long time since I'd any gold and I was forgetting what Septimus looked like.

Prior to the deathbell meadow Margeth n I'd been over east Riften way, where we'd had a good thing going reselling bandit horses. Course we got done by the thieves and then a bandit fellow flogged Margeth and kilt our own horses and run us out of town. Before _that_ we were in Ivarstead making a steady fortune breedin bears, but that place is such a morbid shithole we counted ourselves lucky to walk outta there prematurely aged n nothin worse.

Where was I? Lookin down the slope, seein one lotta fellahs fight another. I was seein funny from the mead and the cold. I had to be, I reasoned, 'cause yonder Border there's this foggy shadow like the biggest bat you ever saw rolling round in the sky.

Said Margeth, "Y'hear that?"

He was talking about the clamour of horse hooves descending the approach. That was a long slew of gravel left behind from landslide or another, extending from the pass left of Angi's Camp into the valley. Come to think of it it mighta been the landslide which made the pass. I dunno. Anyway the approach bypassed us to the right, and sure enough after a second or two a dark-haired fellow in not much armour flogging the daylights out of a palomino comes belting past. The palomino was a good horse, muscular, with a proud bowed neck and hair like every little daughter dreams of. She was tearin up the gravel with her big groping hooves, but we could see she was close to exhausted. Off they went, fellow screaming for the mare to go quicker, and she already going quicker'n she should've on that slope.

Moment later we saw why. Hot on the hooves of the palomino mare were a contingent of silver 'perials on the backs of brown stallions. I can't tell you how I knew they was stallions without inspecting the undercarriage, 'cept I know horses, and I knew these ones were stallions. None of 'em as fit as the palomino mare. None of the riders dumb as the thief (go figure). They saw the approach was getting steeper and they drew up; thief saw it getting steeper and he dug his spurs into the mare's flanks and all but flew her into the valley.

By now I'd lost interest in the blondes n silvers, figuring it to be a forgone conclusion. But now the mare was headed that way I had another look. Maybe the 'perials down there weren't all dead, but they sure weren't having skooma parties neither, and one or two of the Cloakers was regretting gettin outta his bedroll that morning.

The Cloakers spotted the mare, as it was hard not to with the hullabaloo the thief was raising. One Cloaker looked to another like they was sharing a thought. Struck out for the horse. Two of em, armed. Well of course they was armed being in this part o the world in these bleak times, but it's not every day you go pointing swords at horses.

Margeth was thumping my hand. "Get up," he said to me, "We're going to get on down there and take that horse."

I love Margeth as dearly as any man can love his brother, but sometimes he had some damn dumb ideas.

"You reckon so?" I said slow-like, hoping his brain would catch up with his mouth. The thief had spied his ambush and was trying to steer around it, meanwhile the mounted 'perials were picking a safer course down the gravel approach. "On account of I reckon we should stay safe right here and take care of our deathbell and not get involved."

"T'Oblivion with the deathbell!" Margeth pulled out the dagger he'd pinched from an Orc when we did our stint in the Bilegulch Mine. "That one horse is worth more'n everything we got here – includin you and me! Let's get down there!"

He wasn't waiting for me. Like the fool he was he crawled over the side of the bank n dropped into the tall frozen grass on the grove side of the approach. Here it was a tricky run through the trees to the river, but one we knew well. With the dagger in his hand and his putrid old studded armour he took off down the slope.

Well I might have been dirtier than a skeever's backside, but I was blonde as was obvious to anyone's blind grandmother, and my armour was as cheap n foul as Margeth's. What I'm saying is we would never be mistaken for 'perials. Being a Nord can be a dangerous occupation on the Border.

I had a thought then which was dead wrong. The thought was, this isn't the dumbest thing he's ever done, you might as well go over him.

Dead wrong.

So with my trinket of a sword I ducked over the bank and keeping low galloped down the verge. One of the mounted 'perials must've seen me, 'cause he shouted and an arrow whipped straight in front of my nose and buried itself half to the fletches in an aspen tree. You can bet I skedaddled. I didn't want trouble with the 'perials. I wanted to drink and smoke and pick flowers for a change. I wanted-

We hit the barren lower banks of the valley a little too literally: Margeth lost his footing as he ran for the horse being driven his way by the Cloakers giving chase, fell, and had all of half a second to scream before the big plate of the palomino's hoof bore down on his face and crushed his skull like a torchbug smashed by an arrow.

I stopped. I dropped the sword. The palomino galloped on and the Cloakers leapt over Margeth's corpse and went after her. One drew back his arm and flung his axe at the rider. He was a lousy shot and did no more damage than the handle whacking the mare's neck and bouncing off into the dirt. It was enough to rear the mare. The thief, who'd clung on all down that crazy trip into the valley, was now thrown clear. The mare and her jostling saddlebags rode away over the rainbow. Ah well she might as well've, 'cause in a pretty minute she'd crossed the river and surged over the far bank, into Cyrodiil.

Margeth was dead and I had no way of hauling five hundred pounds of deathbell to Whiterun on my own. I couldn't quite seem to keep up with the proceedings. Margeth was dead. The horse was gone. The Cloakers had a struggle on their hands with the thief, who musta thought if he kilt em then he could get on over the rainbow after his horse. He was tough, and desperate, and the Cloakers tired from their battle with the silvers. The thief slit the throat of one of em before the 'perials on their second-rate stallions charged in and shouted for everyone to drop their weapons.

Well I'd done that. Margeth was still holding the Orcish dagger in his hand but Margeth was dead. Ten days from pay dirt. We'd probably have blown it all on piss and women on the first night and then gotten flogged and ridden outta town but at least we would've had it.

I don't know why but my knees went. I don't mean to say I collapsed; right the opposite. My legs jerked up and down like pistons on a Dwarven engine and next thing I knew I was running for the Border. All I was thinking was that I was sick of this, sick of the Cloakers and the 'perials fighting over two blokes most've em had never met (one they never would, 'cause he was dead), sick of being flogged, and sick of being the wingman for a damn dumb dead fool.

It was a flash of madness driving me over that particular border, I'm sure, as it was taking me directly into the enemy's armpit, that is to say, into Cyrodiil. I ran. I stepped over poor dead dumb Margeth with a sorry look at his corpse, then I ran on, slippin and slidin down the wet rocks to the river. Being of mountain breed it was narrow and quick and liable to drag me under, but I knew if I just got across it and up the bank then it would take all the Emperor's army to hunt me down again.

One of the only two favours the 'perials have ever done me they did me right then: a plucky young silver-headed fellow spurred his horse after me, and it snorted and slipped and at last splashed into the river, where he headed me off and drove me west against the flow of the water.

"Stop! Rebel!" screamed the energetic young fellow, wheeling his horse against the water. Not only was he a moron, he was a moron who couldn't ride a horse. His stallion jumped in protest, while I kept going, cutting south to the Cyrodiil bank.

I was two steps away from it with the plan to put myself behind a boulder half in the water, when from behind that very boulder there leapt a bear, probably hunting salmon but I can tell you I didn't care about that then. The bear took a swipe at me and I jumped back in such a fright that I forgot to take into account the 'perial. I hit his horse and it jumped again, this time the underside of its big stupid head cracking onto the top of my own, and I fell backwards into the water as it was rushing against me and I fairly inhaled it.

That's as much as I remember; breathing water and my poor head bouncing gently off the river bottom.

Following that I suppose the 'perials did me their first favour of my life; because it was a long time later that I woke up, bone dry in the wrong clothes, in a shitty little wagon destined for Helgen. I had to thank them that at least I hadn't washed up dead (or alive) on the banks of Cyrodiil.

Of course, my hands were tied.

I didn't thank them for that.


	2. Helgen

_A/N: Thanks for the favourites, alerts and review! Keep em rollin, baby!_  
><em>In case anyone was curious, grammatical inconsistencies here are reflective of Skole's state of mind. :) <em>

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><p>I wake staring into the eyes of my brother.<p>

He's pinching my nose.

"Ah- ah- fah!" is the effect of my spluttering, loud enough t'wake the dead.

We was underwater in this hell-shabby Palace like a Dwarven city gone to flood, and a million fishes swarmed around us, watchin –

-wait a minute. Now we wasn't.

But the only reason I knew it was Margeth was dead, and the fellow starin at me wasn't no dead brother, and nor was he any sort of fish I'd ever seen.

If he kept starin at me, either his eyes'd fall out or I'd punch him in the mouth. Wanna win some gold, bet on the latter.

He kept starin.

I take a step up to hit him and the cart hit a rock and I fall flat on my face. Far out. My hands are stuck behind me. Unfortunate experience familiarised the sensation. I get to work right away untying myself. So I was under arrest. My brother was dead. There're a bunch of leery Nord cousins in place of sweet shiny fishes giving audience.

I roll off my face and onto my side. The action affords me a view'a the rest of the cart and the cart behind it. Couple sturdy old horses on each, not 'perial stock. Wouldn't fetch much of a price second-hand less it was in ransom, and horses like that can make a thief regret they was born.

Guess one thought leads to another, cause I look at the only dark-haired fellow in our congress, member #3 of the second gilded chariot, and know who he is.

"Bloke's a horse thief," I says to my neighbour across the prison cart.

He smiles this real mean wistful smile like he is right then wishin he was jerkin off in the outhouse of a Cloaker camp. T'be brutally honest, between the prison cart n the Norgy, I'd any day take the outhouse.

"I'd be a horse thief too, if I was luckier," he tells me.

Another cousin snorts, "Hn. If _I_ were luckier, I woulda been shot in the neck at the Border."

He gestures vaguely to the fore of the cart, making it a consequence of his non-death. To oblige a cousin I follow the gesture, and low n behold beyond the bobbing grey heads of the draught horses are the chipped granite walls of Helgen.

Now just hold on one skooma-shootin second. We might'a been arrested on the Border, but the keep closest was Falkreath, and if they wanted to slap our hairy wrists then that oughta be where we were headed. Not Helgen. Only folks went to Helgen were folks destined for-

"The chopping block," nods my neighbour, reading all this off a stricken man's face. The stone gate rolls over our heads, for a moment bouncing the noise of the horses' hooves back at us like captured thunder. "Sorry, cousin. That's what happens when 'perials dogs can't pick a Nord soldier from a citizen."

Another of my three companions in the cart nods to the second vehicle. "With Ulfric bein with us, every Nord in Falkreath is gonna be headed this way."

Either he said "be headed" or "beheaded". One made more sense than the other, but that wasn't the one which had me so alarmed.

People from houses screeching at us like they had no business to do, the carts stop. By the keep tower 'perials had set up a tea party for us.

Now I might come from Shor's Stone, and it might be a decaying turd heap, but as a turdboy I can say with full authority that Helgen is grade-A 'perial manure, and this was even before the place burnt down and the bandits drifted in like the stinkin gloating buzzards they are. I don't want to die here. Come t'think of it, I don't want to die at all. Wasn't havin my brother die enough for one day? Couldn't we do this tomorrow, or after I told Maw?

A 'perial pulls the back'a the tray down and grunts for us to get out. Rest of the silvers are standing round a short wooden guillotine they've taken all the care to put on the dirt.

"Step forward, prisoner," says the 'perial to me, when I don't skip after my cousins.

Not budging, worried they'll notice my undone bonds, I say, "You got me wrong, man. Me'n my brother were just pickin deathbell there on Angi's Grove-"

"Trespassing," bellows the 'perial broad beside him. "Resisting arrest by attempting to cross the Border. Step forward."

I do, cause these 'perials got their swords trained on the ratty death pyjamas some smarty replaced my armour with. "Lady," I tell her a bit hopelessly, "I wasn't crossin no Border. Reason I got in that water was to chase down the mare for your boys. I know what trouble you 'perials have with horses. Kindness itself, I am, to think of gettin' it for you."

The lady says to the son of Septim beside her, "Write him down as 'idiot'. Let's get this over with."

I want to be offended, but actually I've already forgotten the broad. Reason being Ulfric himself is standing beside me. It's my first time meeting him, one billionth time having heard about him. He's this big blonde bloke got a fur cloak offa bear by the looker him, but if that's the case I can't figure why they call him Ulfric Stormcloak and not Bjorn Bearcloak. He doesn't even look much like a bear or a bloke who shouted apart such a man as a high king, and my being impressed quickly muddies to disenchantment. Here I was hopin His Nibs Ulfric was going to sprout wings and fly us over the wall.

Someone shouts for this to hurry up. Horse thief suddenly breaks free of the ranks of prisoners and makes a run for it. We all snap our heads up to watch him. Run fellah, run! He runs, the guards go after him, better chances for us to get away.

"Archer!" calls the broad.

_Whack_ and the horse thief is dead. Arrow in the back, face in the dirt. Ain't no guards running after a corpse.

"Now if nobody else has any objections..." says the broad, and I can think of millions. I reckon I could think of so many objections that if she spent the time listenin to them then she and I both would die of old age standin right here in Helgen.

No one is listenin to me. A Cloaker is pushed onto his knees, head on the execution block. No last rites or nothin'; the broad just tells the minister to can it when he tries. S'pose the 'perials are scarder of Ulfric than of restless ghosts.

The executioner swings his axe. A meaty _thwack_ followed by a huge and distant roar. We look to the skies. We see nothing.

There's the grey tower and a few wooden long houses with mummas n kiddies peerin at us. I recall the first execution I ever saw, sittin on my aunt's knee in the crowd, Margeth and my sister on our uncle's shoulders. We went all the way to Whiterun to see it. Erkki Cattlethief was the name of the bloke. Afterwards we went to the markets and my aunt bought me a sweetcake.

Funny how the good times come back to you in the worst times.

Funny how I was quite happy to have my whole life slide by in a haze of mead n skooma n bad jobs n worse women, content to die any day at all in my sleep, yet come time for some bloke in leather lingerie to take my worthless existence away from me, I suddenly got all attached to it.

"Next." 'perial calls this like this is the dullest thing he's ever seen. "The prisoner from Cyrodiil."

Mara above. Sweat prickles my neck. That was me. Wasn't it? I mean, sho, I'd passed out and nearly drowned before I ever touched _Terra cyrodiilus_, but out of all the leprechauns I could see around me, I must've been closest to the rainbow.

Fobbing my way through a prayer, I step up to the chopping block. I'm nearly there when this buff chap I don't recall from the Border knocks past me and kneels down, resting his thick neck on the block.

I just stand there. The executioner raises his +1 axe of risqué underwear. I can't move. Damn, I can't even die when I'm supposed to. No wonder I can never hold down a job.

There comes a distorted cry from beyond the keep.

Aw, what the f-

Then the 'perials are screamin and the Nords are runnin and the sky and the keep and the earth itself is on fire.

You know what I was doing this morning? That's right: picking flowers. Now I was screaming for my very life as a fah-king dragon poured over the top of the tower, spewing flame and instant death and we were chaos, chaos, trying to get away. The worst part of all wasn't that we were being picked up n eaten n made crispy; it was that all this was happening at the claws of a creature _which didn't even exist_.

Despite everything else he had to worry about, the executioner chose that moment to fret for his job security. He took up his axe again. I believe that's what em fancy folks would call _psychological displacement_.

Leatherdacks takes a swing at Buff on the ground; I spring up and punch him square in the jaw. Executioner rocks backwards, his axe gripped in his fingers like wire threaded through boiled ham. I hit him again. This time he does down and I lean forward and pick the knife off his belt before he's hit the dirt.

Hit that dirt real hard did old leatherdacks, which felt to me about the first good thing that'd happened all day. To celebrate I cut the bonds off the first blonde bloke in front'a me. It'd be my pleasure to stand around all day cuttin rope, but seein as there's a dragon lapping about town, I just extend my generosity to freeing His Nibs Ulfric and count myself done with it. One blonde bloke picks Buff off the ground.

"Get into the keep!" he shouts, pushing Buff towards it. Buff'd been on the chopping block when the dragon showed face, and either from the shock of the beast's appearance or plain thinkin his head was missin, he'd taken a fall off the block. Way he looked now was prob'ly concussed. I don't know much about concussions 'cept if you get enough of em you aren't allowed to dance on the table at the inn no more.

"Ur," mutters Buff, then the dragon wheels around from terrorising 'perials n we leg it into the keep tower.

Cloakers everywhere are talking and I'm not really listening. 'perials outside fighting with bows n swords. Couple injured men on the tower floor. Dragon seems more pissed off than put off at the arrows peppering its glossy grey flanks. Blondes Buff and another called Rolof run off up the stairs, leaving me with Ulfric and a fellah who's cryin and another one who ain't.

"Hey!" is what I shout up the stairs, "You want us to come with?"

All answer I get is this big roar and the wall of the tower comes crashing in over the stairs and the dragon sticks its ugly head in.

I'm ready to run out the door. His Nibs Ulfric is just standing there starin at Old Ugly. It takes its ugly head outta the wall and Buff and Rolof wait a second and then jump out after it. I look around the tower door. 'perials further down, mostly screened by a building what's on fire. Dragon seems pretty happy to have charcoal sardines for dinner, not bothering about us little oysters here in the tower.

I look around; south gate'a Helgen is where I recall it. Still you can never be too sure about these things and I'm of a mind to wander over there and double-check my facts.

"Sir," I says to Ulfric, realising the advantage of additional targets with which to make the sprint, "Reckon the bugger is distracted enough we can run for it."

Ulfric has this prodigious brow prob'ly made so by the weight of all the weeping mothers he's deprived of sons. When he draws it up it's like the curtains closing on a puppet show. Makes kids cry, is what I'm saying.

When he speaks I don't mind tellin you I feel like cryin too, and I'm no more of a kid than you are. "Speak true, man. Besides the beast, what are our chances of bypassing the guards?"

I stick my head out the tower just in time t'see Old Ugly pick up a silver and flip him up in the air. Lands heads down. Dragon wins. Dragon's the kinda bloke wins a lot.

"Reckon they're preoccupied." I come back into the tower. Crying and Ain't Crying were looking at Ulfric. Didn't matter that the tower and Helgen too were gun burn down, those two weren't game t'shit lest Ulfric said so.

"We'll go," he says at last, when I'm thinking of runnin anyway. He tips that heavy brow towards me. "Lead the way, knave."

Knave? Knave? I'm flattered til I recall the word I'm mistaking for knave is thane, and realise on toppa that Ulfric is calling me simple.

Simple as I might be, I'm not so crude to think myself immortal, and I run outta the tower faster'n that palomino mare hoofed it over the Border. By time Crying, Ain't Crying, and His Nibs are halfway across the courtyard I'm climbing the oak beams that'd fallen against the fence when Big Ugly'd taxied low over a house. The beams were on fire but then so is my arse (least so you'd think) and I'm up n over the fence quicker'n you can say charred skeever.

The other side is peaceful, the other side is calm. Landing heavy on my bare feet stirs a powder cloud from the light covering of snow on the dead grass, and that's as close as outside Helgen is getting to a calamity. I don't like the calm one bit and I wait in a heckova fret while three blondes drag their carcasses over the fence.

"Riverwood's that way," I says as soon as they've over.

Ain't Crying puts a hand on my shoulder. "Who's going to Riverwood?"

"I am." I give him some distance. For some reason I keep thinkin of how Margeth is dead. Blame Ain't Crying. He's the one I woke up thinkin was my best brother. Old Ugly is havin hisself a marvellous time there in Helgen burnin down the houses n killn 'perials n I don't really give a god damn. My brother is dead – dead! Crushed by a horse ridden by a horse thief where the horse got away and the thief got shot dead in the back.

Cryin like the big man I am, I finish sayin, "I'm going to Riverwood. Then I'm gun get a ride on a cart back to Shor's Stone and tell Maw Margeth is dead."

Sobbin n bawlin I wander off northwards, working my way between the cold face'a the mountain and the burning wall'a Helgen. I'm lyin about the cart, a course; less whichever poor beggar owned these rotten rags afore I got em stashed a mint in the pocket, I ain't got a single Septim to my name. Nothin's changed, then.

It takes me a minute to realise the Cloakers are behind me. Only reason I know it at all is on account of Ulfric sayin right up close,

"Travel with us, brother. Good deeds deserve to be repaid in kind."

I've never heard an ebony war-axe speak, but if I did, reckon I'd think Ulfric was in the room. He makes me shiver like a woman.

"Yer Highness," I says, givin His Nibs some distance, despite it was him what approached me. I still can't stop cryin about Margeth. "That's kindly of ya. But I wouldn't be of any use to ya. Yer better off leavin me t'walk with the wolfs."

"Wolves," he says, and would you believe it he puts his noble hand on my arm! He seems to have made up his mind. "No, brother. The wolves will not prey upon you. Not when you walk with bears."

So His Nibs says, thus shall it be.

Far above us, unconcerned by the affairs of wolves and men, a roar of a flames crushes my faith in the falsehood of fairy tales.


	3. White River

_A/N:_ Thank you everyone for the reviews, watches and favourites. It's so nice to be doing a serial with such instant feedback again.

Updates will be weekly. I've taken small liberties with certain parts of the canon, but this is generally as accurate as I can make it. If you see any glaring inconsistencies than please do not hesitate to mention them!

For reference, a splasher is a familiar name for the mudguard on a horse-drawn carriage.

And y'd is pronounced "yid"... being from the Boondocks, sometimes I say this too...

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><p>3<p>

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><p>To be honest, when the dragon parked its ass in fronta our carriage, I thought we were all gonna fuckin die.<p>

Lodve and Oystein – better known as Crying and Ain't Crying – crawled outta the carriage so fast I thought that there scaly beast were their cousin makin a kissy face. Then they dragged up the swords they'd borrowed from brothers in Riverwood (the carriage itself being a generous donation from the miller, Hod), and Lodve had a shield while Oystein was more inclined to magery. The dragon – big greeny-black bastard he was, and nasty, like all the sabre cats y'ever seen taped together. Bugger drew his scaly head back and blew flames all round. I did reckon there a moment the carriage would go up as easy as the dead thistles on the roadside, then I recalled this was Skyrim and the weather was shit, and not even the dead thistles were gunna catch.

"Sonova horker!" Lodve shouts, with his shield in the air. He shoves his sword toward the dragon. "You're lucky I'm damp!"

Oystein knocks a couple spells in the critter's direction. It's about as worried about the spells as I am about the ill treatment of Argonian dock workers. Oystein hangs back shoutin while Lodve runs in shoutin and wavin his dinky iron sword. Honestly you'd think if you were gun blackmail some brother for his sword, y'd at least make it a good one.

"My gods," Ulfric croaks, coming up beside me on the splasher. We haven't set one foot outta the woods onto Whiterun Plain yet and here the bastard lizard has tracked us down. Lodve's shield catches alight and a second later up goes the chemical-saturated leather armour all Cloakers get around in. Lodve starts to scream, the same high-pitched bloody roar you'll get from any man on fire, only Lodve is in armour, and the helmet muffles the bloodiness of his scream and lets us hear instead this squeal as if it's a loose-skinned sausage boilin in there instead of a Nord.

He runs and squeals and he's gotten no more'n twelve paces with Oystein n His Nibs n I all watchin struck lame when Old Ugly snaps his neck out and chomps Lodve's head n shoulders clean off his body.

His legs and the bit above them drops to the forest floor with a wet splat I coulda done without. Smoke curls from Old Ugly's red nostrils and I'm aware his eyes are on us, on Ulfric n me in our useless poxy horse cart. With a shout of dismay Oystein flings his spells aside and legs it into the trees.

Meanwhile, you're likely here thinkin as not the carriage is just sittin pretty here in the middle of the road. Ain't so. When the dragon landed the driver prioritised survival to manners, and over the rocky downhill path the carriage bounced no amount'a false advertising would make comfortable. Oblivion-bent on death or freedom we went. Just outta spite Old Ugly fetched up his tail and nailed poor fleeing Oystein into a spruce tree, hard enough Oystein's guts burst through his sides and his face was hammered into a red wed mask on the conifer bark.

Happy with this, but not happy enough, with a smile out of some deep nightmare on what amassed as its face, Old Ugly starts comin towards us. Wing over wing, the claws on its bat's wrist churning up the soft rotten leaf mould on the road's either side. Its horrible tail kicks and swishes as it moves, and Ulfric's voice is a soulless trickle as he watches it,

"He's going to kill us."

Which I thought went without sayin, but I wasn't about to argue with His Nibs.

"He might."

"He will." Ulfric peels his eyes off Old Ugly and plastered em to me instead. His works his jaw, his eyes are showin sclera right the way around, he's cranin forward and recoilin behind the splasher at once. "Br-brother Nord." His throat works, bobbin his Adam's apple like a float hittin a wave, "If I die, the resistance will crumble."

And if _I_ died, I'd be dead. No more drinkin, gamblin or horse-thievin for me. _Shi-it._

"What I need you to do," says Ulfric, watching the dragon and me alternatively, "Is get out there and stop that beast."

The carriage rumbles on, only a bit faster than Old Ugly ploughing towards us wing over wing. Anyone'd think Old Ugly there had all the time in the world to catch us. I wonder if I'd misheard Ulfric. I hazard a guess that I'd heard right.

"Sir," I says, and on cue the dragon takes a leap almost to the wing. My guts end up in my throat and my heart bouncing on the road. "Yer Highness, believe me when I tell you you're the last bloke I'd want to offend. But are you mad? You send me out there and all I'm gonna do is buy you two and a half seconds while Old Ugly there chews my face off instead'a yours!"

The worst part is, Ulfric is listening. I can see him thinking of a million different ways he could use that two and a half seconds I spend dying horribly, and it's only because he dun find a favourable enough results that he says to me,

"You may be right. What if you were armed with a sword? How much longer would you last?"

Then he picks up the sword under his belt and puts in in my hands. Behind us Old Ugly leaps up again, this time finding the wing, with a huge BAM BAM BAM of breaking air rises above the trees.

"Oh, no," I moan, as Ulfric gets a hand on my shoulder.

"Fourteen seconds should be enough to see us clear," Ulfric tells me. Then he shoves me over the splasher.

I hit the ground cursing his name in what I believe is an understandable protest. Old Ugly lays eyes on me as I roll outta the dust, sword in my hand rather than in my belly which I'da thought more likely. Old Ugly drops out of the sky, his shadow swamping me, and as he falls he spits a wad of crimson fire at me.

I promptly forget all about Ulfric and his blonde rebellion. I might be a Nord but no one will ever accuse me of being a decent one. Old Ugly lands and there are flames everywhere around me, the heat so intense that even this soggy miserable Skyrim soil dries and ignites. I can barely see the side of the road. He'll probably get me like he did Lodve and Oystein, but there ain't a thing I can do bar try.

Funniest thing is, while we're on the subject, is I'm not on fire. Oh I'm plenty hot, n scared shitless (ask my pants), but not grilled crispy charcoal chicken. Not yet. You can bet I'd like to keep it that way.

I all but fly into the trees, the flames hot on my heels. Down the slope onto Whiterun Plain. That's the worst way t'go. Old Ugly has trouble moving through the spruce trees. He'll have a clear run on the plain. Clear run and I'll be boned. Mara help me.

Thinking that I cut left and keep on running. Throw the sword away, it's only slowin me down. Speed, speed, I wish my feet would fly me over the leaf mould, which is up to me knees in some places and a thick rotten soup where it's fermented over the bare limestone. Sporadic flames at my back. Crackling the air. Mud between my toes. Climbing up, dipping down, over stone ruins, around then, climbing up. I'm outta breath, my lungs are packed with dynamite. The run never ends, this bloody dragon never quits.

I jump a log and snag my foot on a branch on the far side. Face first into the mouldering leaves I go. Earns me a mouthful of soil. The fall bashes the air from me. Flames spew overhead.

There, Ulfric! You've got your fourteen seconds! Let's see you use every one of em, you selfish rich schemeing sonova hagraven!

Slowly, sorely I gain my feet, wonderin why everyone in Skyrim picked today to try n kill me. Old Ugly touches down on the flattish stone ruins ahead of me. He orientates himself with crab-steps n groping wings while I find my feet. We're on a slant, or perhaps that's just my head. I'm filthy n breathless n dressed in rags without even a sword. The dragon is thirty foot long, ten tall, coated in scales like layers of fishmail. I'm shaking, thinking maybe I busted my jaw in the fall. It doesn't really seem to matter.

"Mortal," comes this growl, this seething growl like from the belly of Tamriel itself. Old Ugly's hot, sour breath swamps me. Not that I don't stink already. "Which toy's trick is this that you resist my thu'um?"

Hey hey hey. I ain't resistin nothing. I've spent the entire thirty (give or take a ten) years of m'life very specifically avoiding resisting everything from joining the Cloakers to arrest for indecent exposure.

"I never did," I says, "N you got no right accusin me of stuff what I ain't done on atop'a you tryin t'kill me. I won't stand for it."

Old Ugly blinks, somethin he ain't in the habit of often doin. "Huhn," he produces after a time. "Don't suppose you'd tell me what you intend doing about it."

Allova sudden I'm reminded of the time years n years ago Margeth n me were down in the paddock over yonder hill near home, and into our paddock had wandered this cow. Margeth reckoned it was wild; I wasn't as sure. He had an old woodcutter's axe he used to cart around in those days sayin it was an Orcish battle axe. At least he acted like a right Orc when he had it. Proddin this cow n callin it names; stupid beast was stuck in the mud of our dam, let off a bit from the creek. Bit of a dry spell and the dam was mostly mud, but there was water underneath it, and a foot down the mud was thick and viscous. Poor cow was in up to her flanks. It din have any more chance of pullin itself free than Margeth did of bein an elf.

He kept proddin it, and sometimes I joined in and other times I told him to stop. The cow, distressed, mooed something terrible at us, its eyes big n black n wet n beggin us to help it. That old cow looked right at me as it was wearin out, and frank as anything it said to me, Help.

"Margeth," I'd said, "Either we help it out or it's dead."

Margeth got this look then like he did sometimes. Nasty n dumb, rather than the sweet n dumb he usually had on. Somewhere in his body there was one mean bone, as I guess is in all of us, n it surfaced right then in Margeth.

"It's dead," he said, and he swung that axe right round into the cow's face.

It took him two more hits to kill it. I didn't watch after the second. We went home after, couple cow horns as trophies, and as we wound our way back up the hill Margeth said to me,

"I had'ta. What else I'd done, huh? We couldn't pull it outta that bog."

By time we got home the mean look in Margeth's eyes was gone.

It wasn't gone from Old Ugly.

Already on the dragon's pebbly lips was the excuse to its brothers, "What else I'd done? I couldn't let him run down onto that dangerous plain by hisself."

Dread knocked its lead fist against my chest, cause I knew I was right. Dragon wanted to kill me, and that was the only excuse it needed to do it.

"Ain't nothin Imma do'll stop you." My throat is dry; I swallow and leave it dry as it was before. The whole forest seems to be creakin, leanin in and listenin. Creakin, and - - a tiny splash of cold water hitting smooth rocks. Not the river rushin down the mountain flutes, I've heard that forever. A different sound. Small water, amplified, the splashing shadowing the splashing, right on the edge of hearing, cuttin in n out over the creaking, the dragon's breath, the shuffle of my raggy clothes as I shake.

To the right, no more'n forty yards. Twenty running paces.

My eyes go wide, and I stagger backwards a pace, Old Ugly following me with his mean gold eyes. But I ain't starin at him. There, there, behind him!

Alarmed, I choke, "Wha- what's _that?_"

Old Ugly turns. So do I. Then, as Old Ugly searches for a glimpse of nothing at all, I duck low and leg it over the log and towards the sound of splashing water. Two steep verges before me; the first steep one onto the road, the next to the river curving round the mountain bend. And there, draining beneath the road into White River, is an underground creek emerging from the undercut river bank.

I'm over the first verge before Old Ugly has figured out he's duped. I hear him give a snorting roar as I scurry across the road, kickin up sparks how fast I'm going. Ahead I hear the splashing water as loud as the bells of Sovngarde, crashing down a bank I can't tell the height'a. Old Ugly is comin for me now, but it takes him a while t'get going and he has trouble moving through the trees. Giant BAM BAM BAM as he climbs to the wing. As soon as I hear it I jump over the edge of the bank, bracing with m'knees bent for the shallow water beyond. Hit it, fall back. Into the river and back, back against the falling muddy water of the emerging creek and into the wet rock, and back again into the grotto amplifying the glorious splashing of the creek.

The dragon's shadow distorts behind the curtain of water. I push further n further into the soft wet black earth, never darin t'take my eyes off the dragon, or where I think he might be. Upwards slant of the grotto floor takes my feet from the water but my head towards the road bottom, and I know I can't go far.

After circling once, twice, over the river and road, Old Ugly drops into the shallow water on the river's edge and begins to swing its gnarly long head to n fro, snout raised, scenting the air.

I stink, like I told you, but here n now I was hopin it was the stink of the earth and not of a panicking man. My right shoulder hits a rock wall; the left empty air, and I slide into a lightless wedge where the earth has washed away from a fault line in the limestone. Spider webs tear off in my hair and against my bare legs. Old Ugly leans closer. Stirs the river bottom. Turgid water surges to his wrists, then his knees. An odd sideways swinging walk while his head goes back n forth, snuffling nostrils, wings shedding water as he shuffles closer.

Then that big gold eye swivels towards me, and I know I am found.

Backwards I go, into the earth. The floor of the grotto takes another dip upwards. Any higher and my head will be in the underground creek. Dread, this feeling as cold as the sea of Winterhold, trickles down my throat, pooling in my chest and guts. Old Ugly watches me a moment through the water, then surges forward. Water breaks over the ridges of his grey-green skull. Its snout tips up, its breath rank and hot, a long low growl shiverin at the back'a its awful throat. Deeper, deeper, and there I am slippin on the wet earth doin my very utmost to keep outta reach of his probing snout. Like a bug under a skirting board, I am. Further, further into the earth. Til I'm sliding sideways, n bent up from the low roof and the high floor, the queerest sound of water rushing above my head, blocked by no more than a sliver of mossy slate.

M'shoulder butts something hard, sharp. I throw it a hasty glance and near tear me face off on the rock wall. No use. Can't see what I've hit, not with nostrils blocking the light there wasn't anyway. I grope at the blockage, hoping to gain another yard, another foot, another inch into the grotto. Steel. Cold. Wide at the top, tapered lower – it's a bloody sword!

Old Ugly is playin with me, knows he has lunch sorted. Without a kind thought in my head I wrap a hand around the sword's handle and drag it out awkwardly across my body and clumsily slap it into the underside of Old Ugly's snout. He starts, n blows a gasp'a flame, but not enough to burn me when I'm damp as a slaughterfish's crotch. It'd cost me some force to pull the sword free, as it was content to be wedged between the rocks forever, and I'd banged my elbow something fierce. They say when you're scairt you don't feel pain, but here was me trapped in a little wedge of earth bein pursued by an animal what didn't rightly exist but was plenty fierce to compensate, and my elbow was testament to the bullshit people will tell you.

To shut it up I slapped the sword up awkwardly again, this time succeeding in drivin His Nibs Wretched Breath a short way back. Not outta the grotto, not by a long way. Just enough that I could get the sword up over its head. In a flasher madness I struck into the open end'a the cave, sword level n straight out, and bypassing the great snuffling snout ran all my weight behind the sword into the dragon's small gold eye.

Deep, deep. The sword hits bone and I push harder, slamming my weight into the sword. Dragon is flailin, his wings beatin outside, tail thrashin from what I could discern from the crashing of water and the madness inside the grotto. But its horns had wedged its head fast under the slate roof and between two limestone boulders. I push past bone. The sword sinks to the hilt in whatever dragons have fer brains.

One mighty twitch, one breathless second, and the dragon is dead. Its body sags, slumping into the river shallows, its neck straining as its head stays stuck fast. I realise I's the problem, n haul the sword from the crushed eye socket. Head hits the ground and snaps out of the grotto. One Oblivion of a splash as the thing recoils into the shallows.

My heart's throbbing hard as my elbow. Can tell you I have no small amount of hesitation climbin to the grotto mouth t'check the beast is really dead. With the sword in hand and breath caught in my throat I lean out through the short dirty waterfall.

There in the shallows, the dragon lies, its head n neck on the foot of wonner my limestone boulders, tail pulled straight in the deeper waters, the rest of it the better part submerged, one wing crippled up beneath it, the other floating on the water. Beautiful, now that it was dead.

I look at the sword in my hand. A gold handle and blade. Dwarven? I'd have to have it appraised. Surely a solid gold sword would shout me beers and bed for at least a couple nights.

Then again, the amount I planned on drinking soon as I got to Whiterun...

Probably not.

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><p><em>AN:_ Hey y'all readers again, thanks for making my Christmas.

Until next week!


	4. Dragonsreach

_A/N: _Thanks again to everyone for the reviews, favourites and alerts! Is anyone else doing Sydney Supanova 2012? Elder Scrolls cosplay ohhhh yeah! That's really a bit much, isn't it? :D

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><p>4<p>

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><p>They pulled me up in fronta His Jarlness Whiterun, and I thought for sure I would be executed on the spot.<p>

His Jarlness on his granite throne surrounded by his ministers was lookin like it was all a bit dull. I having had an ale or two was feelin quite the opposite. You'd never guess from his face the guy was quizzin me on a buncha folks sayin they saw a dragon at Helgen.

"You were at Helgen, were you not?" he says to me with a yawn, hand out like la-de-da, "Or are you a prisoner washed in from somewhere else?"

After sittin in the grotto for another half hour, I's finally convinced Old Ugly was dead enough to creep past his corpse. I had a look about for Ulfric, knowin I was a wanted man in the south and likely as not t'be wanted in Whiterun too by Arcadia, who'd fronted Margeth n me the gold for our little pharmaceutical venture. With Ulfric I could get into Windhelm, where it was cold as ass but at least nobody much knew me.

Well anyway I was standin on the road lookin down onto Whiterun Plain, and thought I saw a carriage about four miles off to the northeast. Goin like a blight outta Oblivion, it were. Soon as I saw it I knew there went my ride.

While I was standin there, feelin plenty sorry for myself n poor dead Margeth, I did happen t'hear horses round the bend above the bridge. I still had the goldy-coloured sword in my hand like any dumbass bandit, n so shoved it under the rotten piece of linen passin for my belt.

Glad I did. For sure enough, my ears din fail me, and there happened along the six shitty guard-horses poorly mounted by six tin-headed 'perials.

"Drop your weapon!" shouts five of the 'perials at once. I already have my hands in the air. Horses canter round me. Says the sixth silver, an elf woman bit brighter, cleaner, n certainly easier on the eyes than the rest, "Some of my men reported seeing a dragon in the area. What can you tell me about it?"

"Nothin," I said, hands in the air, a blade ticklin my throat. "Except it's over there."

I tip my head up the hill. 'perials clamour, all of them drawing weapons. Elf shouts for a couple of them to check if I be truthin. They go, she looks me up and then down.

"You're a prisoner."

Surprise she noticed over the stench and the leaf mould and the mud. "Got free legit," I tell her, with a burnt and grimy smile. Try for charming, go on. "Dragon dropped into Helgen, gave us all a pardon."

Elf's eyes narrowed. Horsehead crest on her shield showed she's a Whiterunner. "Arrest him. No one bar the Jarls and the High King (rest his soul) grant pardon in Skyrim."

Wonner the 'perials wriggles his sword my way. "We could kill him now. Save us the trouble of having to cart his sorry ass home."

Elf pauses. Considers. "No," she says at last, n I nearly dance with relief. Not that it's ever more'n an hour between attempts on my life anyway. "We'll take him. The court will be interested to hear his account. Jarl Balgruuf can decide whether he is to live or to die."

As silvers one and two are helping me into shackles, I say, "Brother, I'm parched. Would you have any ale on ye?"

Grumbling, silver one nonetheless obliges, passin me the flagon on his hip. It isn't good solid Nord mead, but crappy runny 'perial wine. Tastes of Cyrodiil and oppression. Well I might be biased by the continual attempt of 'perials to kill me for not doin nothin. And I guess oppression ain't all that bad cause afore I know it the flagon is empty.

"Thanks, brother." With hands shackled before me I toss silver one the flagon. "Wouldn't have any mead to wash away the taste?"

Silver two shoves a bottle of Nord mead into my hand before silver one can belt me over the head with the flagon. I'm enjoying the powerful aftertaste from the comfort of a poorly-bred draft horse when the two reconnaissance agents come a-galloping over the ridge, shoutin, "It's dead! It's already dead!"

Elf is suspicious, eye slotted, mouth hard. "You're certain?"

"Lady. There's a pretty difference tween a live dragon n a dead one. They'd pick it."

The silvers ride up, both of em flustered. The drafts are spooked but hiding it well, like any draft horse with its pride will. One says, looking between the elf and the bend on up the road, "It's dead. Threw a rock at it and all and it never flinched. Looks like it was pierced through the eye."

The second silver is clamouring to say her piece. "Y'oughta see it, ma'am! Hide the colour'a ironbark, it has! Much the same to prod at too – so it looked. Gotta have at least three tonner flesh on it, reckon someone better move the corpse afore it blocks the river."

Elf regards her with all due Dunmer loathing. "Very well, Corporal. You and Sergeant Gers may remain at the scene to see to it Whiteriver continues to flow. Corporal Harson," she nods to the other silver who took on up the river for a gander at the dragon, "You will travel with myself and the prisoner to report to Balgruuf."

's how I wound up lookin at His Jarlness Whiterun with a belly full of cheap mead and wine, wonderin if His Jarlness ever did a single dirty day's work with them long thin hands or if they was entirely for makin him appear pensive.

"I ain't from Helgen," I tell him, since he was kind enough t'ask. "Born n bred in Shar's Stone. And I wouldn't mind gettin back there if your Majesty is done detaining me."

His Jarlness seems almost amused. "Majesty? You really are a simpleton! We would be as foolish as you are to expect your witness; evidently this dragon business is some fantasy of the lower classes. Never mind it. As thanks for your assistance in the matter, knave, I hereby pardon your transgressions in the Hold. Irileth, show him the door."

Actually I've already seen the door n've been thinking about it a whole bunch, specifically never seeing the back of it again. Seems His Jarlness isn't such a bad bloke after all.

Elf has just got her dainty killer hands on me when mon signor's steward clears his throat. "Yer Lordship. The going rate for any information provided for the aid of the Hold is fifty Septims, for a knave..."

Did someone say Septims? I turn from the beautiful door to His Jarlness, who is already scowlin at me, or maybe was scowlin inwardly anyway the entire time, likely as not smellin the skooma n mead n wine on my breath and jealous as a spriggan over its grove that it's my breath and not his.

I let him glower. He soon runs to the end of it. "Fine." He reaches under hisself on the seat, drawing out a ratty coin purse and tossing it to the steward, which that excellent man then passes to me. Heavy. About forty-eight Septims heavy, I'd gauge. Figure my freedom accounts for the missing pieces. Probably the deal is His Jarlness promises not to behead me if I promise not to mention his being skinflint.

I make the coin purse disappear into my filthy tunic. Even manage a bow, which is really just a mooning in reverse. The Elf hovers at my side. She seems even lovelier now the world has taken on Tiber Septim's golden glow. I smile at her and she scowls at me. But'a course; she's a Dunmer, and Dunmer hate everybody. Matter o fact once I knew a Dunmer hated everyone so badly that when his wife cheated on him he threw her a party.

Moments later I'm out the door. I din get much of a tour'a Dragon's Reach, but it dun take much figuring to know I preferred the outside better.

Guards on the drawbridge hurry me on. I've heard the Jarl's unwanted visitors often end up under the bridge as opposed t'on toppa it. Yeah. The view is definitely better up here. Orange sunset makes a fiery lake of the plains. About a quarter hour til the shops shut and the real drinking gets started. I need to get to Belethor's and then the inn if I'm to find a sucker give me a lift to Shor's Stone tomorrow.

"Brotherrr!" Heimskr cries as I pour myself down the stairs into the upper plaza. "Does the love of Talos fill yourr hearrrt, guide yourrr everrrrry action?"

I stop short by him, tastin mead on the air. "It sure does, cousin. Why just this mornin I said to Talos I said, boy, Talos, I'd sure love it if ev'y man n his dragon in Skyrim up n tried t'kill me, and d'you know what? Good old Talos saw to it my wish came true!"

Heimskr breaks into a huge, beaming grin, which nestles like a wolf lying in ambush in the red bush of his beard. "Talos does oblige the faithful."

"Yup. Reckon he might also summon an ale for me since I asked. Tell you what; Imma wait at the inn for a miracle to happen."

"Don't wait, brother! Go, spread the love of Talos!" Heimskr reaches into his robe and flings a bottle'a mead at me. He sounds one hearty prayer from orgasm. Unwilling to become the trigger for another man's pleasure, I quickly thank him and run across the plaza n down the stairs into the marketplace. On the way I down the mead, secreting the bottle behind Carlotta's fruit stall. She shouts somethin at me, but my eyes are on Belethor's main man Sigurd out front'a his place. Sigurd is lounging by the door and he hastily shoves a bottle behind hisself as he catches my eye. Word on the street is Sigurd is set to take over shop should Belethor ever slip up on his own slimy trail. I palm a Septim to him, look meaningfully towards the mead bottle and then to him, and wink.

Sigurd turns the red of a Daedra rose and hurries to open the door for me.

"Don't tell!"

"I won't," I tell him, "But you'd better give me that mead bottle all the same. Belethor asks about your breath I'll tell him I kissed you on the mouth."

He dun divvy up, but nor does he resist when I pry the bottle from his hands. With refreshments thusly provided, I roll into the shop, Sigurd hopping on my heels.

Belethor greets us both with a hearty roar of, "You! What're _you_ doing in here!"

Sigurd n myself share a moment of confusion. Then Belethor stalks out from behind the counter, cocks his fist, and punches me to the floor. I din expect the hit yet nonetheless have been punched enough times in the mouth that I roll with it n don't lose so much as a tooth.

"That's for skipping out of town on me!" Belethor bellows from somewhere above his knees, which are as much of him as I can see. The view dun greatly improve upon my revival, as I'm a good head taller than my lecherous buddy n can easily pick out the bald patch he thinks he's combed out of sight.

"Excuse me. Last time I saw you we's both got drunk n then when I woke up the next day you'd bet all my gold on a mule in a horse race n sold my clothes to pay for your drinks." I stare down at Belethor. He squirms. As a toad tends to when caught in a hole. "Don't you try t'dig yer way through the floorboards, either," I tell him, "I want new clothes or my old ones back, and drinks t'make up for the ones you enjoyed on my Septim."

"You do stink horribly," Belethor agrees, somewhat made mollied by the looming list of transgressions I could recall at any moment. Belethor might seem like your everyday scummer-Tamriel merchant, but you ever see him at a bard's night when the lute n drums are bringing down the crossbeams and you'll known he's a Daedra at heart.

He hesitates a moment longer by the fire pit before swaggering over to a wardrobe. "I don't keep this stuff on display," he calls over his shoulder, as sweet as if he were born a lamb, "It's too good. For the everyday customer, that is. For you I think it will be just right."

Sigurd glances at me, sees I've finished his mead, and hurries to fetch us another drink. "What happened to ya anyway, mister?" he wonders as he pulls bottles of Alto wine from under the counter, "You get under arrest fer summin?"

Did I ever tell you drinking makes of me a proficient liar? Well I prob'ly woulda told you while I was sober, but being drunk you'd more likely be smellin bullshit.

"I'm a secret agent, working for His Highness."

This is as far as I get before Belethor bursts out laughing. He turns from the wardrobe. "_You?_ A secret agent for the – the who? Torygg (bless his immortal soul)? What're you investigating in those rags – the quality of Skyrim's prisons?"

"I was tasked with infiltratin the 'perial legion in order to suss weaknesses in allegiance to His Highness General Tullius." That dun sound quite right to me but it's too late now to change it. "So far I've discovered seventy-five per cent of 'perials are actually Cloaker spies."

I would'a sided with Ulfric's boys, only after he done left me to die in the woods I din have half as many nice words for him as was needed to lie about it.

Belethor has gone back to his rummaging. He pulls out the odd garment and drapes it over his arm. 'Wow. I didn't realise the silvers were so far down shit creek."

"It ain't shit creek; it's Cloaker Creek, n they're paddlin as fast as their little heads can handle."

With a snort, Belethor leaves off pickin dresses for me n wanders back over with what he's got. "How about that dropkick brother of yours? He a secret agent as well?"

"No," I say, and take a draught of Alto wine to waylay the treacle pumping through my arteries. "On account of he's dead."

You can tell the news shocks them from how they just stand there, slack-jawed n starin at me. Difference is Sigurd is a good kid n likely feels poorly for the death of a man, while Belethor is gutted he lost of source of income. I swear that man mourns every death in Tamriel.

Finally, he clears his throat, and drops his starin eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that. I won't say Margeth was the greatest contributor to the glory of Nordkind, but he had his moments. Man always knew where to find skooma. Like a horse smelling water."

"To Talos," says Sigurd.

The eulogy is over and I'm not sure if I should be crying. It's true what they say; Margeth never had a talent, not a single one, other than gettin his hands on skooma n mead n very cheap women. He couldn't read, or chop wood good, or play the lute, or skin rabbits, or even pick deathbell very well. But he was my brother. He was my brother and I loved him.

"'preciate your condolences," I mutter. I look briefly at the exquisite garments Belethor has brought me over. They really aren't all that bad, so either he's feelin poorly for screwin me over last time or he reckons I've got gold now that I'm workin for General Tullius. "How much is that?"

Belethor holds up some brown patchwork thing looks cheaper'n the rest. "For you? Forty-eight Septims. I'll throw in a pair of boots for free."

I started with either forty-seven or forty-eight Septims and gave wonner them to Sigurd. "Maybe y'oughta show me what you show yer regulars."

"Naw, come on. Take it. Forty-eight Septims is all it will set you back."

"Forty-seven," I say, "And you owe me another drink." And then a bunch more drinks once I stole his wallet.

"Done. You can get dressed out the back." He pauses, glancing me up and down. "You don't... you're not going out in that state, are you? You'll scare off the whores!"

"Oblivion no. You got a pump I could use t'get cleaned up?"

Quarter hour later I'm s'fficiently clothed and as clean as I ever am. I also know the reason Belethor sold me the fine robe so cheap is the inner lining is so moth eaten it disintegrated as I pulled it on. One of the boots he gave me has a hole the size of a Septim in the sole, but that was nothing couldn't be patched with a little cardboard n nail. I check my reflection on the pump splashback to realise I's much blonder than I recall. I toss my prison rags in the shop-back fireplace as I wander downstairs.

Belethor n his boy are standin by the open door onto the marketplace. There's a heckova ruckus coming from outside, jingle of a lotta steel armour in motion. Belethor ushers me closer, game t'touch me now I ain't smellin like a bed'a corpses.

"Being that you're a secret agent, you might know about this," he whispers, fixed as Sigurd on the commotion, "What's this about a dragon?"

I retreat from the door. There's plenty of mead and Alto wine in here. No need to go out and risk being spotted by silvers in need. Plus the room is swayin as the laws of physics sync to my drunkenness. "It's classified. Dragon is a codename for a really boring project I can't tell you anythin about. Where d'you keep the Black-Briar mead?"

He doesn't answer, so I help myself to the stock under the counter. Soon as Belethor hears the hiss of quality mead reacting with air he lifts his head towards me. I'm sittin in his chair n drinkin his beer.

"Get out of that!"

"Shut the door and I'll share it with ya."

Belethor dun take much convincing. Sigurd dun take any at all. We're sittin around the fire pit having a grand if hazy time listenin to Sigurd tell us about the one time he nearly got laid but then didn't on account of his being morally uptight about sleepin with his cousin, and we might've all had three or six or fifteen or so when the door bursts open and this vision of an Elf in leather armour bursts in with twenty other 'perials behind her.

One of her triplets waves her sword in my direction. "Prisoner, you must come quickly. Urgent news from the south – a dragon is attacking the western watchtower!"

I'm about to say no (in fact I've said it a couple times) when she begs me,

"Please, you must. Only you have experience with the dragons. You must help us save Whiterun!"

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><p><em>AN:_ Anyone else get the feeling Skole is in even more trouble than he can reckon on?

As a side note of some tiny interest, the grotto in chapter 3 comes pretty close to existing in the game world. If you head up from Whiterun towards Riverwood on the road, above the bridge on a hairpin turn, there will be a rock bluff to your right and the river to your left, and a waterfall just up ahead. If you cut towards the river here you can see a small creek emerging from the earth (either an underground creek or a glitch), and the rock beneath it is quite indented... but no dwarven sword! I thought it was pretty cool, all the same.

Until next week!


	5. Western Watchtower

_A/N:_ Writing a synopsis for your own story is one of the hardest things to do. Right until the point of publication, a writer must be as personally involved with the story as possible. Then, when selling it to an audience, you are expected to completely detach yourself. It's my life! I can't be detached!  
>Luckily, on an open forum like this one, the story is able to sell itself... :)<p>

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><p>5<p>

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><p>Running across Whiterun Plain, I'm pissed as a stoat. Why'da these things happen to good men like me? All I ever wanted to do was drink and have a good time; now soon's I start havin said good time all manner'a terrible nasty shit starts happenin, to the culmination my drunk ass runnin from safety and comfort to fight some sodding horrid dragon.<p>

Oh why gods, I'm implorin as I run, then I recall I don't hardly ever go to church, and I start t'think my gods Talos you're a sonova bitch.

I'd offered Belethor to come with, but he'd politely declined by slamming the shop door in m'face. Bastard. Just wanted all the mead for hisself. Sigurd mighter obliged, but he'd taken one look at the shop lights spirallin off all that 'perial steel and dead fainted.

Silvers all around me are howlin for lizard blood; accordingly we're the back-up group for the blokes failed before us. None of em have horses, all of em have heavy armour, and runnin flat out t'wards the watchtower like that has got to flog a man's stamina.

Flames to the west and the boys pock up their trot. It's dark as a khajit's backside and the bobbin torches make it hard as my giddy legs to run straight. I'm runnin in the wrong direction in that I'm runnin to the dragon at all.

There it is. That squeal like glass on a grindstone n there the bastard is lit up by his own orange flames. He rounds the watchtower in a great sweeping pitching dive and I just know his demonic eyes are on us belting up the lane. He passes over the road fifty yards ahead'a us and the flames pourin like molten snot from his nostrils illuminate the first of many corpses. 'perial splayed on the earth, her armour so blackened she might be picked for an assassin, cept you never see assassins n I sure as day is holy could see this corpse.

Brings to mind there's likely plenty more where that came from. I stop short just past the first corpse, because the very last thing I want before I die is to trip on a dead man.

"Go, go!" shouts the Elf before the silvers can stop beside me. She's told me more than once her name is Irileth. "Into the tower – I want some on the battlement, some on the wall. Kill that beast in the name of the Emperor!"

Off go the silvers. Irileth pauses by my side. "It seems I was wrong to doubt you." Her cool eyes meet mine. Mage spells meet dragon fire, swords screech against breaking rock. I try to not appear distracted. The world is spinning. "Accept my apology. As remuneration, seeing as you are the sole experienced dragon slayer among us, I hereby grant you access into the watchtower if it is to aid your disposal of this most heinous threat."

She jogs off. Gee, thanks lady. I'm touched. I'm free to trespass on 'perial territory providing it helps me be burnt alive? Are you insane?

For a moment I'm alone with the corpses on the roadside. There's more of em too, up ahead, piled. Scattered. Burnt and dismembered. So many corpses. Freshly minted silvers are already on the broken tower wall n loosin arrows like they was boys on the schoolyard roof. Dragon swoops down, picks up one n bites him in two. I hear the body splat wet, heavy on the hard-packed earth n it occurs to me this sonova bitch (so I say to myself as I fumble with my pocket n move my feet on account of Nirn being a big ball what keeps on rollin n rollin beneath me n I gotta adjust t'stay on it), this sonova bitch has gone too far. Recalling my sword and my spare bottle'a mead I draw them, n I shake the sword at Fangs there whizzin round the watchtower as I drink.

"Hey you great flying turd!" shouts me, feelin like I's loud as the sun would be if you pressed yer ear against it. I may have a bottle of mead instead of a shield in my other hand but that's as good a defence as I ever cared for. "I'll tell you what yer good for – shit all! I bet your mother says the same!"

I know mine did.

Fangs crests the tower to serve up some fire to the silvers on top. Panic should be racing through me, but I'm angry, real angry. Angry at Margeth n angry at me n most of all angry at these _mother fucking dragons_ constantly causing a man such goddamn trouble!

"Hey! Dickhead! Yeah, you! You old lady's handbag!"

Is it just me or is the dragon looking my way?

Oh Oblivion. Oh yes it is. Its gleaming yellow eyes a-fix on me. Bloody smart, are these dragons. Smart enough to smell an insult at two hundred yards.

Fangs leaves off pitchin silvers over the parapet in favour of seein to me. He lands between me'n the watchtower in a great rumbling crash, as you'd expect from two tons of leather n bone n real nasty attitude.

He climbs forward on his wing-hands and hind legs. Neck swaying. Twisting side to side so he can better eyeball me. He may not want to look it but he's hurtin from the arrows picking his flanks n belly n the bursts of mage ice n the small deep axe wounds. I keep walking backwards as he comes towards me, bottle'a mead raised in defence.

"Hey, Fangs," I tell him, pretty much scared shitless n knowing I was about t'die. Surely if I kept on thinkin that I'd eventually hafta be right. "Heard a rumour your girl left you on account'a your consistently unsatisfactory performance in the lizard nest."

"I am female," replies the dragon, in this voice'd make Ulfric sound coquettish, like the last strong flame from a bed of ash speaking, like rock turned to fire, like the voice alone would boil my blood n pop my skin n melt me right where I stood. She hesitates. "I nonetheless resent the remark."

"As you would. You've got nothin else goin for ya with that old handbag face n now turns out you're a lousy screw too."

Fangs gives a seething hiss. I feel the heat of it curl around me. My hand flexes on the Dwarven sword. My pulse is in my stomach, rallying against my drunken bravado.

Except that it isn't just bravado. It's something else as well. My feet feel their way over a corpse the spin'a Nirn has seen fit to place in my path.

"Matter'a fact," I say, "I was speakin to yer mother just the other day n she tole me what a constant disappointment y'are to her. Why can't she be more like Thorns's girl, she said. Why can't she get a proper job and settle down with a nice bloke? At this rate I'll never have grandchilden-"

That does it. Fangs attacks. As she does her wing-hand snags the corpse n she staggers forward, throwing her neck out for balance. My drunken stagger sidesteps her head by some Daedra-given chance, for the next moment she's spittin n then roarin flame. But no matter. All drawn out like this? Don't make it too easy on me, doll.

With all my courage in my throat I jump up onto Fangs's neck. She roars n bucks but my weight as I jump up n down like you would on an inn table is too much for her to combat, and her neck sinks down until it's firm against the burnt corpse. I drain the mead bottle before flinging it away, taking up the sword in both hands.

Jump up and-

"Look alive, Fangs!"

-strike the neck blade first, chipping first against spike and then scale, but my weight on the sword drives it down, down into meat, into bone, and finally against the charred steel breastplate of the corpse.

Fangs a course is flailing madly. She jerks n throws me clear. I hit the dirt hard but it's no worse than being thrown from a yearling foal. Lucky said foals have honed my reflexes to get my dense skull outta the way after a fall; I roll n find my feet n scramble before Fangs's dying jaws can snap over me.

But that leaves her facing me, and me her, her tongue lolling out as she struggles to keep up her head, but already her strength is pouring out of her as her blood turns the road black, and that light in her eyes is steadily dying.

"You – are – different," she pants. "But – you – are – not – the – Dovahkiin."

"No," I say. I'm not much of anything, really. Though I did just slay two dragons, which is more'n anyone else I know can boast about.

Fangs licks her black lips. "Then – I'll – be – back."

And there she slumps, dead. I scurry outta the way'er her sagging corpse.

_I'll be back_. What'd she mean by that? Was this a circle of life talk? As in, you'll bury me here since it won't do to have a great reeking lizard corpse stinkin up the western watchtower, n then my body will become the grass, and the plains elk will eat the grass...

Somehow I really don't think so. But then I was drunk, so who knows.

I'm still wrestling my sword from her throat when with a jingle of leather n steel the 'perials jog down the laneway. There are about half as many as there were going up. I don't pay em too much attention and don't think anything is weird until I notice they ain't makin any noise.

I look around. Irileth n the rest are all gathered round, weapons drawn, watching me.

With the strength of surprise I manage to pull the sword free of Fangs. "What?"

Irileth, heading the 'perials, holds a hand over her heart. She bows her head. "Hero." As she drops to one knee, the silvers thump their weapons sharply on the earth. "We are in your debt."

Hey, hold on a dragon-pickling minute there, girl.

Hero?

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><p><em>AN:_ Just writing as Skole makes me feel drunk...


	6. The Bannered Mare

_A/N:_ Today's chapter is a little on the short side, so I will be uploading chapter 7 either today or tomorrow. :3

Interspacing Skyrim with different games, I grew weary of Terraria and decided to hone my skills on Forza 3. The reason this chapter is slightly late being uploaded is that I was convinced to write a very short story for Forza. The strangest thing is I have no idea if that story is any good, if there is a category for Forza, or why I even wrote the thing to begin with.

It's truly a very odd world. :)

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><p>6<p>

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><p>"May I buy you a drink, hero?"<p>

"Aw, n-" I'm about to finish declining when I think, man, two dragons died by this old hand today. I could do with liftin a pint rather'n a sword. "-ice. That'd be nice."

As was Irileth, captain of the hot elves in Whiterun. She'd been makin eyes at me ever since turns out little ol me slayed that there badass dragon without practically any help at all, without so much as breakin a sweat, ayup. Okay, okay. So the whole affair was downright embarrassing (being called a hero – pff!), and there are folk who'll dismiss a beautiful woman outright on the grounds'a her bein an elf, but I's always been more the variety to take lovin home whenever and however I could get it. So shush yer pretty mouth. I'd just play down the whole Power Man Single-Handedly Kills Two or Four Dragons With Blunt Sword Whilst Naked.

Irileth smiles at me. Whoa. Practically has to peel her eyes off me in favour'a the barkeep. "Bartender, a pint of your finest Black-Briar mead for our man of the hour."

"Man's the hour?" chimes Fralia Gray-mane, who of a day runs the general goods stall in the marketplace. I nicked a leather helm off her once when I were ten years old and she's never forgiven me it. "What's a petty sneak-thief like 'im done t'be man'a the hour?"

"Didn't you hear?" says Gus, wonner the guards what wasn't eaten by the dragon. "Skole here defeated the dragon at the western watchtower."

"Shi-it," goes Fralia, "He never."

"I did too. Why else you think y'ain't on fire?" I says to her. She's lucky I's so lenient of other people's faults when I's been drinkin, else Idda let that dragon sit right on her stall.

Then Fralia sullies my sullen disposition t'wards her by sliding over to our party'a silvers n screechin at the barkeep. "Hulda! Wonner whatever piss y'can get in a glass for the hero a Whiterun!"

Soon's we'd left the watchtower and its parade of corpses, Irileth sent the fastest of the boys to Dragonsreach to tell folks there the news. He caught us again near the city gate, so outta breath I thought he'd strangle, saying His Jarlness were clean in bed and did not care to be disturbed by sweaty stinkin city guards. Person'ly I reckon that sonova toad Farengar got to the guard first.

All the same that left a buncha wound-up guards n me to our own devices. Weren't much for it bar to –

"Scull! Scull! Scull!"

The silvers are well n truly diluted by townsfolk now. Lotta em have bought me drinks. Some say it's an insult to a man's pride for folks to repay a matter'a duty, but I learnt young to swallow my insults.

I scull a pint n whack the glass on the counter to see Irileth watchin me, almost smilin. Someone else pushes a tankard in fronta me. I's already dizzy n not speakin even less right than usual n I really should say yes but no thanks.

Then Irileth raises her glass, and I know I'm not going anywhere.

The bar cheers below a sea of glasses. "To the hero of Whiterun!"

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><p>Sun in my eyes.<p>

Tiles on my back.

Huh?

With hands cupped on my brow, I manage to winch apart my eyelids. Takes me a moment to realise I'm lookin along the length'a me body, which disappears at the knees. My skull is tryin to trick me into thinkin a marching band is practicisin on the street outside – but I am outside – and I seem to be upside-down – and I'm naked cept for a pair'a knickers which would appear to be women's.

The marching band raises a fuss as I look left n then right. I'm on a roof with my knees hooked over the ridge, then. All right.

With the care y'can only exercise with a hangover, I gently extract my feet from the other side of the ridge. This immediately tips me off the roof, but I only land on my head, which was hurtin so much anyway I barely notice.

Funny lookin house, this one.

Could almost mistake it fer the Kynareth Temple.

...

Oh.

So that _is_ Danica Pure-Spring standin in the sun there with a broom, then.

"Well if it isn't the hero of Whiterun." Danica nods, or maybe she doesn't; I'm havin a hard time lookin at her when she's standin in that damn bright sunshine. "I was about to knock you from the eaves."

We both look up at the steep roof. "Buggered if I know how I even got up there," I say, and Danica agrees.

In fact, I'll be buggered if I know much at all; at which point the party left the Bannered Mare, where my clothes are, if I'd scored with Irileth. 'pared to that, not knowing how I'd gotten upside-down in a pair'a women's underpants on the roof'a temple seemed entirely overstated.

Harder to believe was that this time yesterday, I'd been pickin flowers.

And then Margeth-

Gods be damned! I'd forgotten Margeth!

"Look, sister, I'm real sorry I got my ass all over your temple. But my brother is dead – er – reckon you could lend a bloke some clothes? I have t'get back to Shor's Stone and tell Maw. Aww. She'll wanna have a proper Nord funeral, I'm sure. Oh, shit, I've gotta get a horse n get out of here!"

Question was, who in Whiterun would be stupid enough to lend _me_ a horse?

My spiel about the dead brother has thrown Danica, and with a mutter of "Of course", and no hitting me at all whatsoever with the broom, she hurries me into the temple.

Inside the door she touches my arm. "Wait here."

Okay. It's cool and might be peaceful inside the temple if it weren't for the lousy sick n injured groanin. That's the way it is with the laid-up; one starts groanin and they're all liable to pick it up.

Guy laid-up on a bench eyeballs me.

"What? Never seen a bloke in tiny underwear before?"

He keeps starin.

Danica is soon back with an orange robe over her arm. She says to me, "I hope a monk's robe is okay. It's all we have to spare."

"Sure. What better than a dress t'go with chick's underwear, right?" I joke, and she loses her expression of beatific grace n mercy.

"I'm grateful for what you did for Whiterun. So just get out of here."

Gingerly-like I pull on the monk's robes. Reckon I feel any iller I'll push Starey off his bench and become infirm myself.

"Don't even think about it," warns Danica, failin to pre-empt the thought. She whisks a phial from her robes. "Drink this. It should help with your hangover."

How'd she know I was hungover?

Green liquid in the phial. A tab of paper reading _'Stamina potion: mudcrab chitin, orange dartwing, powdered mammoth tusk'_ is stuck to the side. I pop the cork, gulp down the salty stuff, refrain from belching in front of Kynareth, and hand Danica the phial.

"Thanks. Take care."

With a hop n a skip I'm out the door. I can't recall if I'd seen Belethor last night or not, but his shop sounds like the best place to start lookin for clues.

He's got Sigurd out whitewashing the walls. So transformed am I by the orange robes that Sigurd stares at me without even a hullo. That's either a very good or a very bad sign.

"Kynareth be with you," I tell him.

He mutters, "Thank you, brother," and gets back to whitewashing.

Belethor dun fare much better. I'm nearly to the counter and he's gushin about how nice it is to have a new priest in town when some air of the Daedra about me gives up the pig and he blurts, "You! You creep!" Then he roars a laugh, better'n I've ever heard from him when he hasn't been steppin on somethin small n defenceless. "I suppose I shouldn't say that to the hero of the city. Come for your clothes, have you? You're lucky I had to foresight to get these for you."

He ducks under the counter and produces a hessian sack.

"My underwear isn't in there, is it?" I wonder.

"I hope not." Anyway Belethor opens the sack and has a look. "Nope. I can sell you a new pair."

"Great. I'll trade you for the ones I've got on."

"Er," goes Belethor. He moves reluctantly to the cupboard and selects a crisp new loincloth. "Here. On the house. As thanks for slaying that dragon."

I get changed in the backroom. "To think people say you're a shrewd, unhappy little man without a soul," I call to Belethor as I stuff the women's underwear into my tunic pocket. Hey, it's no glass slipper, but it might come in handy.

Belethor declines to comment on the virtuousness of his soul. "I take it you're going back to Shor's."

I come into the front room doin up buttons on my tunic front. "Soon as I can get a horse."

"Hulda might help you there. You did him a great service. Man!" Belethor laughs, "I reckon they even woke the kids for that party! You're a real celebrity."

"Ayup. Okay." I toss the monk's robes at Belethor. "See Danica gets these. She dun want to see me right now. I trust you won't sell em off, lest you want the Divines on yo ass. Catch you in a couple'a months, hey?"

I'm across the floor n half out the door. Belethor calls out, "Hey-hey-hey! You're going? Did you forget you have a meeting with the Jarl, bonehead?"

"A what with the who?" Come on, come on. Margeth wasn't gettin any less dead for my dawdlin.

"Don't act all innocent with me – last night you couldn't stop bragging about it!" Belethor puts on his best Nordic accent, which is about as good as my midget elf impersonation. "His Jarlness wants to see me. Prob'ly for tea and nibbles. Did I e'er tell yer bout the time Ulfric sacrificed me to a dragon?"

Yep, that sure sounded like somethin I'd say. 'specially if I was tryin to impress a good-looking elf. Damn. Well, I'm fine with skippin out on His Jarlness, but how about the knickers in my pocket? Were they Irileth's? I dun know if I can stand going on with my life without knowing.

"Er, right," I tell Belethor, "Thanks."

Forgive me, Margeth. I'm just going to check this one tiny thing. I'll be on my way home before lunch.

Promise.

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><p><em>AN:_ Thanks as usual for the reviews, favourites and alerts. Doesn't this just get you pumped up and ready to take out a mammoth? YEAH!

See you soon!


	7. The Banquet

_A/N:_ Last week I was held up by writing Paul Bunyan, this week I'm held up by heading off on the big trip. Or is it just excuses? Look inside your heart and you will truly know.  
>By the way, there isn't a Forza category, so if you would like to read Paul Bunyan or any of my non-ff-fiction, then please so have a look at skullanddog. blogspot. com<br>If you do end up reading Paul Bunyan, please imagine it being read to you by Johnny Cash minus the pauses for breath between sentences. That's just how it is!

Thank y'all as usual for all the lovely comments and more, and have a brilliant bloody Australia Day wherever you are!

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><p>7<p>

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><p>It isn't when folks want me dead I should worry; it's when they want me alive.<p>

Second time I entered Dragon's Reach, guard even holds the door open for me. His Jarlness on the throne is flanked either side by what I immediately recognise as lackeys. Bit'a potion'n I'm sharper'n ever.

Soon as he sees me bein brought up by a guard His Jarlness risks breakin character by plasterin on what he likely reckons is a charming smile. Chills are runnin down my spine.

"Why if it isn't the hero of the Reach."

This quip rolls from the tongue of the black-robed bastard better known as Farengar while Balgruuf is still loosing at the hinges.

I hear about once in every thousand years there is born a warm-blooded mage destined to be a palace wizard, a sort of hero-warlock amongst the standard frost-blooded reptiles slitherin around on the cold wet rocks. It took one single look at Mr Black next to His Jarlness to know the legacy'a the frost-bloods was safe for this generation.

The Jarl, bless him, utters a roar of a laugh. "Hero of the Reach, ha! Try the hero of Skyrim, if what you're suggesting be true, Farengar. Come, lad," he ushers me closer, "Dear gods ye stink like a smelter, but at least that beats yesterday's eau d'loo. My court mage has a few questions for you, then we can get down to the real business of celebration. Go on, Steward, fetch him up a seat. There you go." I'm pushed into a wooden chair worth more than my family home. It's the Steward pushing me. I could refuse to sit, but he's such an intent look upon his face it's either I bend my knees or get buried up to them in the flagstones.

As soon as I'm two foot shorter'n everyone else, Farengar begins to circle my chair. He watches me, dun speak. His Jarlness leans forward eagerly on the throne.

"Go on then, Farengar. Ask him."

Followin Farengar pacing between my peripheries, I realise the Jarl must have near-on his entire household in attendance. And it ain't just guards loiterin in the doorways. I listen, I can hear fat fryin, a cook shoutin fer more salt. Plates and iron pots clanging. Somethin thick n wet bein smacked repeatedly gainst a wooden bench. The gurgle'a drains. And that's to say nothin of the aromas.

"I'm not a man given to trusting rumours," Farengar tells me at last, his slaughterfish gaze fallin on me momentarily beyond the hood'a his robe. His circle draws him behind me. "However I here believe I have heard one worth attending to. You, humble as you are," he appears only to glare at me once more, "You may be the greatest of us all."

Boy does he have me pegged wrong.

He goes on. "Although you were born mortal of body, it is my belief you possess the immortal soul of a dragon."

I what-? I burst out laughing, too surprised t'even stop meself. The soul of a dragon – maybe Farengar is the legendary warm-tempered palace mage after all.

He narrows his eyes. I isn't alone in laughin – sommer the servants and guards think it's just as funny. Aller us stop dead the second Falengar opens his mouth.

"So glad I can amuse." Snap. Bitter. Silence. Farengar glowers beneath his cowl. "Tell me," he nods to me, "What do you find so entertaining – the idea your worthless life could be of benefit to humankind?"

Well, yeah. This is all gettin a bit outta hand. I got to speak, not matter who might chop off m'head for it. "Sir Wizard, thing is, I'm real glad t'have helped y'all. Yer Majesty, likewise. But beyond I kilt them two dragons, and luck must be my failsafe I managed it, I ain't got nothin to tell yer."

His Jarlness pulls a face remembered from before the time he was his namesake. "The banquet is in _your honour_-"

"No," I says, and I stand right up off this overpriced seat. "I got a brother ain't gettin any less dead. Maw will want t'know, funeral hasta be arranged, Pa or Bodilla n me prob'ly gun hafta go on out to the Border see if bears n wolves n skeevers left him alone enough we can bury him – nother thing Temple'a Mara in Riften's gun hafta be let know they got a corpse comin through. Talos be damned." I reverse-moon His Jarlness. "I'm sorry. Enjoy your banquet."

Secretly my heart is bangin away as I walk past the adorned long-table. The Jarl can lie as he pleases – Whiterun is a perial stronghold, and I'm just a Nord, and up here in Dragonsreach I'm freer t'die or be inquisitioned than I am to breathe his Jarlness's royal air.

I'm almost at the end of the banquet table. One sure step after another, boy.

"Stop."

His Jarlness. I want t'run, cry, and hide under a bed. Knowin my luck the under bed space would be time-shared with a dragon.

I turn to him. "Yes, yer Majesty?"

His Jarlness nods to his guards. They rush forward and take my arms, a third trainin his polished steel dagger on my throat. All three dogs snap their heads to the Jarl. He cranks a finger at us. "Bring him here."

They entirely unnecessarily drag me with em to the Jarl's feet. Farengar stands over me, leerin. The itchin dagger convinces me to meet His Jarlness eye to eye.

"I take it your brother is dead?" he says to me, and there is not one single other sound in all of Dragonsreach.

"Yeah. He's dead."

"Good, strong, loyal Nord like yourself?"

If by good he meant simple, strong he meant lazy, and loyal he meant skooma-addicted, then Margeth ticked every box. "Yes, yer Majesty."

"Died in the course of duty?"

I hesitate. That could mean just about anythin. And my spiel about bein a secret agent for the 'perial cause weren't gun hold out if His Jarlness pegged me for a Cloaker. "No, yer Majesty. He was trampled by a horse."

His Jarlness nods. "As are many of Skyrim's good young men." He pauses, a contented sort of silence spent gazin at me in much the same way as a giant gazes at a goat. "Scores of Skyrim's people – Nords, Imperials, Red Guards, Bretons – are dying every week in the name of Ulfrick Stormcloak and now General Tullius. Freedom, loyalty – to which do you swear allegiance, cousin?"

A trick question if I ever heard one. I said 'perials and His Jarlness would likely pull out a bear suit. "Neither, sir," I say as humbly as pie, "It's too grand a decision for any one man to call."

His Jarlness almost cracks a smile. "Yet two have called it, and now the rest of Skyrim falls as playing cards to either side. And fall they do, and pay with life and limb, and war chokes our resources whilst rendering itself a crushing burden. So many sons and daughters of Skyrim have died, cousin. Now we face losing more than ever to the dragons. And you would deny us your aid for the sake of a single, dead brother?"

Oh. Oh shit. So that's where this was headed. Right down Shit fucking Creek. The eyes of the household fall upon me, as keen and hungry as the dungeon skeevers.

"My Jarl." There are no hands nor daggers on me now. I am on my knees on the first step of the throne, too far from the Jarl to even spit in his eye. The most leaden of feelings drops my eyes to the stone. "The honour to aid you will be mine."

Silence. Gods, I'm sick of it.

The Jarl smiles at me when I lift my eyes to his. "Then I name ye Thane of Whiterun, Skole of Shor's Stone, foretold hero of Skyrim. It's obvious to me you're the one; you're a born hero. Farengar will explain the rest." A sudden liveliness strikes him, and he claps and shouts, "The banquet! Get the blasted banquet on the table!"

The household bursts into activity, as frenzied as slaughterfish on a bleeding elk. Not wishin to be the elk, I find my feet. His Jarlness nods to me. Two very attractive Nord girls are helping him to stand. The Jarl murmurs somethin to one of them. She draws graciously from his side and sashays along to mine.

"My Thane," she smiles, "Please call me Lydia. I have been bestowed the honour of becoming your housecarl. Please, let me show you to the table."

I can see the table plenty well from where I am. The lovely Lydia takes my arm and leads me to it. She smells of leather perfumed with sandalwood, and she looks far too clean t'be latchin on t'me. She pulls out a chair. When I just stand there, she says, "Go on, my Thane. This banquet is in _your_ honour – you must sit beside the Jarl."

Awwwright. "Will you sit next t'me?"

Lydia smiles. "No, my Thane, although that would be my greatest pleasure." Her eyes drop momentarily to my crotch. All of my recent despair goes hurtlin into space. "Alas, I am but a housecarl. I will take my place with the other lesser guards further from the Jarl's great presence."

Oh my holy Talos. Lydia makes sure my seat is pushed in just right before sallying away, her fingertips tracing the back of my neck as she goes like the breath of a red hot brand. Chills rn the length'a me. Holy-!

"Uh, I'm sorry?"

By the time I realise there's someone talkin to me, moster the household have taken their seats. His Jarlness at the head'a the table; me'n the Steward at the top seats, the other ministers trickling down from us, then the lesser soldiers such as Lydia, then the general household right at the foot of the table.

The Jarl and his Stewart have each made a speech, and dinner is served, dinner like every hot meal you ever seen all piled on topper one another, the heat comin off it enormous; I'm just about fingerin my roast pertaters as I drift on the topic of Lydia.

Farengar the demon is beside me. His frown deepens.

"I _said_, you are the one of whom the Greybeards foretold. You are the Dragonborn."

Haven't we been through this already? "Pretty much."

Farengar looks me up n down. I'd rather Lydia or Irileth for that particular purpose. Speakin of Irileth, where is she? I may have her undies in my pocket.

"Where's Irileth?" I say to Farengar, who is in the midst of sayin how the Greybeards had sent them this private message about the return of the dragons and some unlucky bastard who was all man and part dragon gun stop the other dragons or some other hoohah I din want t'hear.

He scowls. "Oh her way to Kynesgrove, undoubtedly. Haven't you heard it was destroyed by a dragon?"

I'd spent the night on a temple roof. Why'dd I know _anythin_ about what Kynesgrove was doin?

"Shame," I say, speakin more of Irileth.

Farengar looks like he cares about Kynesgrove as much as I do. "Yes. You are the Dovahkiin, the Dragonborn. You do understand that? I've been researching it ever since I found that – er, since the Jarl read to me the Greybeards' prophecy. Only one born with the immortal soul of a dragon is able to absorb the souls of dragons and prevent them from rising again."

Really? Neat.

Farengar leans too close to me. "What did it look like? How did it _feel?_"

What, t'have my fist in his face? Cause that's what he was headed for. "Did what feel?"

"Absorbing a dragon's soul, of course. Did you see it – was it similar to other souls?"

"Dunno." I'd never seen a soul once in me entire life. In fact I'm startin t'have this real strange feelin in the pit'a me guts. Kinda like I'm far deeper in shit than they ever made gumboots for. I swallow a bitter leek. "What oughter it look like?"

The wizard flinches. "Before we do anything else, we really must work on your grammar. Every time you open your mouth, a white narwhale dies. If you learnt the dragon tongue with the way you speak now, you would probably destroy us all."

A nudge from my other side. The Jarl. "You're just lucky you came in when you did, boy. I'm expecting my brother along any time now – you can bet he'd have something to say about a knave becoming a thane!" He utters a long, dry laugh loosed from the baked dirt of his throat by the Black-briar mead flowing freely around the table. Farengar taps my shoulder impatiently. But he dun want to talk t'me; he ushers me flat back against the seat n addresses the Jarl.

"So the Greybeards were right. The Dragonborn walks among us in our time of need."

"Indeed." The Jarl pauses to stroke his beard. "We'll send our man onto High Hrothgar on the morrow. Best they show him how it's done." He glances at me. "D'you know any Shouts, boy?"

My panicking ears pick up the capital S on Shouts. He's talking about the words of power! Cock and cock again. My heart skips. Dragon souls, words of power – so completely outside my realm of experience I'm beginnin to see my survival was not luck, but the cruellest of jokes.

"I know a few," I lie, after a draught of mead. "I wish I could demonstrate, but wouldn't wanna kill yer guards, yer Majesty."

"Just Jarl will do," Balgruuf tells me. "I know how you mean; rumour has it Ulfrick Shouted Torygg to pieces. I don't want to see any dismembered kings in here!"

"Right, right," I force a laugh.

Farengar is waitin for my attention. He speaks through a mouth fuller pertater. "So you never told me; how does one pick a dragon soul from an immortal soul?"

I'm so sure this geezer is onto me.

"It looks just like a regular soul," I tell him, "But immortal. And covered in scales. And with these big wings like a bat outta Vaermina's best nightmare."

"Did you experiment with drawing either soul into a soul gem?"

"You know, I thought of that, but at the time I was too busy fightin dragons to try it."

Okay, maybe he wasn't onto me. Maybe he was just an idiot.

He nods. "Makes sense. Dragon magic – dragon Shouts. Is it possible absorbing the souls of the beasts added power to your Shouts?"

"Oi!" cries the Jarl. Music and laughter erupt at the opposite end of the table. "Stop hounding him, wizard! Girls, girls, up here! Do a dance for the Dovahkiin!"

A couple of wood elf girls are on the table, grindin their hips and shakin their ample chests to the beat of the drums. People at the table start to clap in time as the girls, gigglin, jigglin, rush over the emptying plates towards His Jarlness.

One leans over towards me. I can see straight down her tunic. She winks. "Dance with me, Dragonborn?"

I glance at the Jarl. "You may as well," he says, "Who knows – you could be eaten by a dragon tomorrow."

With nothin else for it, I climb up on the table. The household cheers. My wood elf kisses me on the cheek before drawin me in to dance.

The hero of Whiterun. The hero of Skyrim. There's no way I can tell these people they're wrong. And who could be bothered to think'a excuses with, whoa, _this_ in front'a them?

The wood elf grins at me. "Come on, hero – dance!"

* * *

><p>\o

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><p><em>AN:_ If you would care to, pronounciate "potato" as per good English. Now try saying "pertaters". Focus on the shape your mouth makes on both. I have a theory that potato farmers started saying "pertaters" so that they wouldn't have to smile when they said it.

Sodding miserable potato farmers.

Until next week!


	8. Shor's Stone

_A/N:_ Today I'm a week into the big trip. I'm staying with my sister for a little while. A few days ago I had a very Kill Bill 2 moment when my ten year old nephew told me he likes watching me kill the bad guys on Fallout 3. With a baseball bat and the Bloody Mess perk. Call me terrible... but I did make sure my young niece was out of the room before I let Chinese soldiers gun down the residents of Tranquillity Lane.

Does that... really make up for it? (She thought Betty was hilarious)

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><p>8<p>

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><p>How many wood elves does it take to screw in a guest bedroom?<p>

Turns out it's two. Two elves, one hero'a Whiterun, and one heckova disgruntled housecarl.

So there I was havin the timer me life on my back with these two girls – neither of em even seen a flea the looker em – gigglin as they bounced n ground against me, and I was ten seconds from meltdown when the thin wood bedroom door bangs open and Lydia sticks her head in and says,

"Oh. Oh! My Thane." She coughs and coughs again t'make sure I can hear her. "Er, sorry to bother you in the middle of, ah, ahem, but your carriage to Riften leaves in five minutes."

She was near enough shoutin so for sure I heard her, it just seemed right at this moment – this particular moment – I was havin trouble figurin why it mattered. The plump wood elf with the big round hooters ushers her sister aside and slides down on my-

It mattered because-

The skinny elf sits astride me, tangles her sister into a loose embrace, and kisses her as she thrusts-

Because Margeth-

To Oblivion with Margeth! He'd ruined near every other good thing fer us – the whitewashing business, the hunted-goods store, the horse-racing syndicate – he could damn well wait til I was done pleasin these here lovely young ladies!

Lydia sings nervously from the doorway, "My Tha-ane."

Aw.

Aw.

AW.

"Geroff yer filthy whores!" With a grunt I pull from under the elf sisters. As the girls coo their displeasure behind me, I stagger up to Lydia. My face must'a somewhat resembled a wall sorely in need'a a coater paint. The old bent-up walk weren't doin nothin to hide anythin. All I say to her is, "Clothes."

She hands me a pile and a sword. I politely refrain from stabbin her. Her eyes keep dartin downwards. "My Thane, isn't that – that is – well, I'd heard a man loses control on approach to the event horizon. To stop now must take phenomenal effort!"

I'm no hormone crazed bull, but if Lydia doesn't shut her mouth now, then Imma flatten her against the door and f-

"My Thane," Lydia calls with a wave, "You home in there?"

Grumblin, I pull on my clothes. Sunlight streams through the iron and glass window. This one room is the sizer my family home. Though if either of me sisters'd been half as cute as the elf girls, I'da moved outta home six years before I did.

Done dressed, Lydia n I wave farewell to the wood elf sisters. I think what the damn and rush forward and smooch the life outta one and then the other before hurrying after Lydia out the door.

"Oh!" cry the sisters, reaching after me, "Mr Skole, we're still so hot for you!"

"Forget him, Miriam," says one as I lament my fate in the hallway, "Come here and let's finish this ourselves."

"Oh – oh –_ oh_ Vereiam!"

I stare at Lydia as we rush downstairs. She appears not to notice. Farengar shouts as we pass him at the banquet table in the main hall. He seems to be alone in not suffering from yesterday's party. Accourse he's like as not t'be pumped up on illegal alchemical recipes. Yep. I'm close enough t'see his pupils are odd sizes.

He smiles. "I trust you're travelling to the Throat of the World to meet the Greybeards?"

Gods no. I nod. "Yeah. I have a short stop in Shor's Stone and then I's be straight on to Ivarstead. Would you like me to pick yer up a souvenir from the Rift?"

He shrugs. "Only some creeper clusters if you pass close to the Marsh. Be careful of giants, ey? Dragons too."

Lydia shuffles. Okay, so we're behind time. "Sure," I tell Farengar, "My love to the Jarl."

And off we run, Lydia n me, out the castle, down the long stone stairs, fanging right at the upper plaza, cuttin past the Temple n round the Drunken Huntsman, down the stairs where Adrienne Avenicci is loudly protesting not being the bestest blacksmith in all Nirn, through the gates and onto the homestretch to the plains.

Says the carriage master by the coach house as Lydia n me puff our guts out, "Carriage for the Rift, miss?"

Lydia gasps and nods. For a warrior sort she's certainly outta shape, maybe like bein a housecarl without a Thane has led to her sittin round on her ass all day eatin cakes.

"Right over there."

Benefits of bein late is the carriage is ready to go, and so's the driver. "C'mon c'mon," he piques, slappin the reigns against the sturdy draught mare as we load ourselves in, "Lucky yer the hero'a Whiterun or I woulda left without yer."

We're the only people on the carriage. Go figure.

I'm still workin that one out when the driver rouses himself to cry, "All aboard!" and the carriage lurches off down the road. We make ourselves at home amongst the sacks of pertaters n gourds. The carriage bounces over one rut and then another, and by the fifth one we're used to it.

After a few minutes, the driver says conversationally, "Fact is Nirn is round, and Tamriel is flat, so t'edges of the continent all stick up hundreds a metres outta the water."

Now here's a guy who's never seen the ocean.

Lydia leans eagerly forward. "Does it? Wow!"

"Yup."

Lydia pulls a face. "But then, how do the ships pull into port at the Bay of Solitude?"

"Well that's simple," replies the driver. "Solitude's merchants had the presence'a mind to hang great long ladders over the edge into the water. Sailors tie their goods to ropes t'be hauled up, then off they hop up the ladders."

"Wow," Lydia breathes. Her bright eyes settle on me. "Isn't the world an amazing place, my Thane?"

It sure is.

* * *

><p>Shor's Stone rolls into sight into the early afternoon, its few small buildings cresting the long hill sloping south to Riften.<p>

It's funny, bein here. The feeling starts soon as we come off the tall ridge overlookin the red booger pit that is the Eastern Marshes. Feeling like I know this place – accourse I do, I was born here – but more than that, growin as we drew closer, as if I'm a dollop of blood rushin through the body that is the Rift, like the trees n the earth n the water is my flesh, as if I was once a gleam in Paul Bunyan's eye and now've come home to see Pappy.

Well I's have come home to visit Pappy, though he sure as dog shit ain't no Paul Bunyan. The carriage driver has been paid ahead; we call him farewell at the toppa the hill and off he rolls to Riften.

"This is your home, my Thane?" quizzes Lydia, glancin nervously about her.

I've had three n a half hours of my Thane yes and my Thane no, and I'm just bout ready t'drown meself before I have t'hear it again.

"Look Lydia," says I, catchin from the corner of my eye that shit geezer Odfel peerin at us from his window, "M'name's Skole. Skole. Got it?"

"School," says Lydia.

"Skole!"

"Scald?"

"Skole! Skole, near the same as skull! Talos be damned, it's a Nord name! Yer a Nord, aren'tcha?"

I'm so outta breath it takes me a minute to notice Lydia is smilin. She looks at me lookin at her, and says, "Skole."

By the Nine. "Yes. Thank you."

"You are most welcome, my Thane."

-!

I glance at Odfel's place again. He catches my eye this time n jerks away from the window. Well, whatever. My eyes slide over a circle of chairs round a fire pit outside my old place. You've gotta be fuckin kiddin me – they _still_ do that? Bitchin by moonlight, s'what Margeth always called it. Unbebloodylievable.

The house what I was born, raised, and (if life is truly horrid as evidence leads one to believe) will die in is the first on the left. Ya can't miss it. Just listen for the geezers whinging and follow yer ears.

Flesh of my flesh...

I stop Lydia short of the door. "Before we's go in."

She gazes at me all expectant-like. "Yes, Skole, my Thane?"

I'd take it. It was a start.

"It's just – nothin. Aw." I lay hand to the doorknob. "It's just my folks." I glance at her, make some motion between us which ends up bein indicatin between her and my crotches, "We're just friends, right?"

Smilin like glass, Lydia provides, "Not even. You're my Thane, I'm your housecarl. You'll need an Amulet of Mara before I peel away the body for the soul."

But I could have the body any time? Could I? Really?

I sigh. "The thing is, housecarl, my rents have been convinced fer a while now that I'm homersexual, and I'd kinda like t'keep it that way."

"Oh?" Lydia blinks, "Is that so?"

"Uhn. I tmakes it easier to explain why I don't have a girlfriend."

She nods, understandin. I push the door open. Immediately somethin strikes me as wrong. The smell. The whole place stinks of-

"Spit-roast goat?" The girl by the fireplace holds out a loaded plate. "No? I overdid it with the salt again, unfortunately. Father's recipe said only two tablespoons, but I've simply got so much damn salt... you're not Grogmar."

"And you're not me mother, father or sisters," I say, comin towards her. The girl is small and dark haired, of an age ripe fer pickin, and about ready to fall from the vine the way her pert, tight little body-

OKAY OKAY I got jilted, okay? My balls are heavy as bruised grapefruit in my loincloth.

Lydia, sensing drama or perhaps a salutation culminating in a rape, slips between the girl n me. "Lo and behold the Thane of Whiterun, the hero, Skole. You may now bow in reverence."

I do, and Lydia thumps me with her elbow. "I mean her!" she hisses.

"Me?" says the girl, and bows. "I'm Sylgja. Um. Nice to meet ya, yer Thaneness. Um. Are you lost?"

"No." I push Lydia aside. "This is my house. My family home. So where's my family?"

I look left, I look right, I look down and even up. Maw, Pappy, Bodilla and Froda fail to transmogrify from bedside cabinets.

Sylgja starts to look blank and stays that way for about fifteen seconds. Finally, peerin at me closely, smilin like she knows what I don't which she does cause I've no idea what she's smilin about, she produces with a squawk, "Are you Skole Stone?"

"_Thane _Skole Stone," corrects Lydia mechanically.

"Your parents left a note for you here somewhere. You could say I'm house-sitting." Sylgja wheels round n starts scratchin through chests n drawers n now I'm thinkin about sex again. "I inherited the job from your sister, before she went off to get married. _She_ took over from Grogmar, who was looking after the place for your folks – they've been gone a while."

Lydia nudges me. "How long since you were home last?"

Dunno. Six, eight, twelve years? It's pretty easy t'think'a 'scuses not to visit when yer mum finishes every sentence with "I'm so disappointed in you I could cry".

"Here we go." Sylgja straightens from the drawer. She passes me a shabby, poorly-aged letter.

I dun like to read too often, as I's heard it rots the brain n figure I's gotta hold onto what little I've got. I hand Slygja back the letter. "Just gimme the gist of it."

"I can't read either," Slygja admits, happily enough. By Talos I'd love to bend her over-

"Dear children," Lydia announces, snatching the letter. "Your father an mother are left fer Morrowind inna horsecart wiv about ten years a food. They say they're on holiday but I know an you will too they believe their true people are the bilious Dunmer. If yer sensible at all yerl hope they stay there,

On beharfer Hassellis an Wand,

Grogmar.'

Lydia and Sylgja both stare at me. "Huhn," I say.

"Hm? Something the matter?"

I glance at Lydia. "It's nothin. Who woulda thought outta the whole village, an Orc was the only one who could write?"

Lydia doesn't really think this is funny.

So my folks were holidayin in Morrowind, possibly forever. Bodilla was off blastin out bebbies. Froda?

"Has m'other sister seen this?" I tap the letter.

Sylgja nods. "She calls in every now n then. She's terribly kind for a woman with only one leg."

One leg? I dun have no one-legged sister. Least not last time I saw her. Then again, Froda was always the clumsy wonner us. "How'd she manage that?"

Sylgja shrugs. "She said she tripped at the sawmill. Can I fix you anything – cuppa tea? I don't very often get visitors, you see, and I do get so terribly lonely..."

She looks at me, all the way from my toes up to my hair. Hot damn! Ever since I picked all that deathbell on the Border I has been on FIRE! It must be on account'a I'm so sensitive and considerate.

"Well if yer not gun show us yer tits then we'll go," I tell her. "You'll understand as a Thane I ain't got all day t'be hangin round bitches not interested in puttin out."

I stare at her for seven entire seconds and she still dun lift up her shirt, so I take it there's my answer. I nod to the girl. "Right. Thanks fer takin care'a the place. Please," I gesture to the goat burnin on the fire. "Continue."

We, Lydia n me, leave her standin there. Unfortunately our short digression has opportuned Odfel to position hisself on the doorstep. He squints as we see ourselves out the house.

"I thought it was you," he announces with a growl, "The Stone boy. Didn't you get the hint last time not ter come back?"

The last hint was so long ago I've forgotten it ever existed. I says to him I says, "No. Come, housecarl. We're takin our leave of this quagmire."

"But your brother's funeral arrangements-"

"They can wait til we's seen the Greybeards." I drew Lydia past the shit geezer, beyond pleased at his scandalised gasp. "And perhaps once we've slain a few more dragons."

Odfel wheels on me. "You will not!"

Okay, maybe he had me there. Bugger if I know how I'd ever got the first two dragons, let alone anymorer the dopey green bastards.

I was not, however, about to concede that to a man who had once chased me around the house with a leg of mutton. I turn to him.

"Pardon me. I'll have you know I is the Thane of Whiterun, and _you_ are hinderin the path of moral correctedness. So less you want to taste cold Dwarven steel," As soon as I say this, Lydia pries the goldy sword from my hands, "Unless you want to taste cold Nord fists, then I suggest you address all your snide remarks in the form of kisses to my ass."

Odfel ogles after us. I've never left Shor's Stone in such style. Lydia is almost joggin t'keep up with my brisk Thane's strut.

"Skole, my Thane, your brother-"

"He can wait, housecarl. Now, _now_, we're off to see the wizards.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_ Oi oi oi, cheers for the reviews, favourites and alerts! It's really super encouraging and lovely. This first part of the story will be about another three or four chapters, and then move into another part. Well, that's the plan! I really enjoy writing it. If it's getting too long and y'all want to see it end soon, let me know and I'll think of something. Until next week!


	9. Seven Thousand Steps

_A/N:_ This week I spoke to a few friends about sex in Skyrim. Certain popular modern RPGs provide the opportunity for you to bang whoever you deem amusing (in Fable 2 that's everyone at once); we asked the difficult question of who would be up for offering in Skyrim. All I learnt in the end was that the next pick-up line I use will be, "Let us consummate my victory".

This can only end well.

* * *

><p>9<p>

* * *

><p>Y'ever climbed the seven thousand steps to the Throat a the World? Or seven thousand steps to anywhere else, fer that matter? D'you know yer heart stops after three hundred steps, yer lungs explode after eight hundred, yer bones dissolve after twelve hundred, you become a blubberin wreck at fourteen hundred, and, at four thousand, there's a troll.<p>

If Ivarstead hadn't been behind me, I dun reckon I woulda made it at all.

As we're lettin our partly-detached souls haul our limp carcasses over steps 3997, 3998 and 3999, a bit of life refluxes into Lydia n she squints up at the white mountain face. We could see mosta Skyrim from here if either'a us was game to look over the path's edge.

"Aw, look!" Lydia sings, staggerin onto step four thousand, "An ickle baby goat!"

She points. Squintin, sun spinnin in my eyes, I oblige. I see the goat, n all I'm thinkin of is dinner. Would you believe I useta look up at this bloody mountain as a kid and solemnly thank the Gods I'd never have reason to climb it? Just goes to show you how dumb kids are.

Ickle bebbie goat bleats twice n hops down the ridge. Lydia crawls onto the snowy half-landing celebratin four thousand of the greatest agonies ever known to man. There may or may not be a shrine there as well, but at this stage, who cares? The goat meets Lydia by the pillar. It's bleatin, seemin pleased t'see her.

Wait a minute. How many eyes do goats have? Three? Lydia draws the thing into her arms. "Oh you're so cute! Sir Thane of Cuteness, that's your name, oh yes, my ickle Thane. Who's a cutie ickle goaticums, hm?"

"Um, housecarl-"

Lydia has the goat on its hind legs in semblance of dance. The goat bleats once more. Then it smiles.

Oh shi-

"Troll!" screams Lydia as the ickle goaticums sheds its soft fleece to expose a fully grown fiercely salivatin frost troll. Bellowin from its belly, its three wet giblet eyes limply affixed to us, it lumbers forward one huge crude foot after another.

Both'a us screamin, Lydia throws herself into my arms then pushes me around ahead of her.

"Go, my Thane! Purge this blight from the land!"

Me? Was she talkin to _me?_

"You're the housecarl! What was that nonsense about bein my sword and my shield, huh? Huh?"

Tears are streamin down Lydia's face. "Forgive me my Thane. I'm terrified of anything that could kill me. Oh please, my Thane!"

Ensuing is a brief, dirty scuffle in which I manage to get Lydia tween me n the troll. Troll might'a kilt us both by now if it weren't so dumbstruck at how dumb we was.

"Oh, no-!"

That's as far as Lydia gets afore the troll swings its immense arm into her face.

Someone hit the gong. One-hit K.O.! Lydia pivots once on her own axis and thuds to the landing. My sword is caught under me belt.

"Hold on," I tell the troll, pacin backwards as it advances growlin n slobberin. "I've just gotta get this thing unstuck."

The troll steps over the crumpled form of Lydia. She's groanin, she's alive. Troll takes a swing at me n I knock its hand away with both'a mine. It hollers n swings again. I finally manage to rip the sword free'a my belt and slap it into the troll's face. It dun so much as blink. Its vast arm pile-drives me into the landing. I'm thinkin of dying when the troll's other, equally massive arm picks me up n slams me into the pavers.

_Biiiiiiiii__iiinnnn__nnnnn__nnggg__ggggg_ goes my hearin. I'm on the ground, I think, ears filled with ice. Taste blood in my mouth. The troll is loomin over me. Lydia is shoutin, shoutin, shoutin, but my ringin ears dun wanna hear it and it only gradually becomes clear.

"-not the chin! Go for the heart, that's its weak spot!"

Oh. Got it. Thanks. I stagger up, wonderin vaguely what living creature's heart _isn't _its weak spot, when the troll plucks me up in one hand n tosses me over its shoulder.

I hit the stairs leadin up and slide quite unwillingly back onto the landing. The troll picks up a trot as its comes t'wards me. This is pathetic. Two hardened warriors (okay, one, and that was me n Lydia put together) and we can't even land a hit on this troll. Where's my sword? It ain't in my hand. I spy it across the landing, partly obscured by the troll's shaggy form and Lydia's lazy ass.

Oh, what the heck. I stagger up, giddily dodgin the troll's next swing, take a deep breath, n with my battered lungs utter the traditional Stone battle cry.

Troll's small wet eyes pop. Literally, they explode into black goo n blood. Dark reddish mush slushes from its ears. Pink froth bubbles from its mouth, spillin onto its formidable chin. It staggers back one, two paces, gropes at its face. I remember trolls regenerate fast and gesture madly at Lydia who's watchin, stunned.

"Get me sword and let's haul ass!"

"Uh," Lydia looks behind her. She grabs the sword and climbs dizzily up. Her nose is oozing blood, appearin quite broken. Already both her eyes are blacking. As she runs across the landing she trips and hits the troll. Troll bangs into a pillar, which lets out an ominous rumble as its foundations crumble. Troll spills off it onto the snowy landing. I grab Lydia and drag her onto the stairs. With a groan of failin stone, the pillar breaks, crumplin slowly to the landing, its huge loosed column flattenin the troll beneath it.

"Would ya look at that. Housecarl, you took out a troll!"

Lydia only mumbles n lets me drag her up the stairs.

Much later, as the sun is sinkin (considerably later'n it does at less altitudous climes), about sixty-three hundred steps are below us and Lydia n me're little more'n withered husks of our former selves. We find the next flat bit'a land and collapse atop it.

I dun take my sword off and I dun take me boots off; I just lie on the stone and go asleep.

Lydia, similarly exhausted beside me, finds my aching ribs with her elbow. "We ought to get off this path, case anyone else comes along wants to get through."

Yeah because the Throat a the World is a regular tourist destination.

"No."

"Then we should make a fire to keep warm."

I pull Lydia a little closer. "No."

Waiting for the next issue on the list, I'm pleased to hear a snore. Tonight, not even the roar'a dragons would keep me awake.

* * *

><p>"My Thane!"<p>

This can't be – eleven boobies – twelve deer – hnnnngrraaall.

"Skole, wake up!"

Lydia's frightened cry is punctuated by the screech of a dragon's fire.

I sit bolt upright and almost bust Lydia's nose again. She gestures into the night. She's lit a torch and set it at the end of our camp. I can't see a damn thing. But then, my vision starts to clear, and I see it's no torch but a fire, a fire a long, long way away on Whiterun Plain.

Lydia passes me a fearful glance. "That's Rorikstead, my Thane. It would appear it's under attack." She pauses. Then, "This is my first time seeing a dragon."

Aside from the odd burst'a flame from the creature's mouth, it's both too far and too dark to see any part of the dragon. The silence between Lydia n me is heady with tension. Awkward, I say, "There ain't much we can do."

"We should be down there, helping."

If the dragon intended to hang about in Rorikstead another two days, then she was exactly right.

"There's no point. It'll be gone long afore we ever get on the Plain. If you wanna be useful, get yerself up and let's get onto High Hrothgar." From the look on Lydia's bruised face, she resents more'n a little my cold application of logic. "If it makes yer feel any better, we can go back to sleep," I offer.

She regards me foully. "No." Takes to her feet. Headed for the higher stairs. She knows I's right, then. Dragons dun tend to hang around fer long once they've burnt down everythin and kilt everyone.

That dun make her any less mad. We rise the final seven billion and fifty-three steps in panting, breathless silence. At last, as yellow dawn flows around the eastern lands, the rabbit road becomes dotted with structures, with blessed signs of habitation. We come to a steep rise in the already harshly inclined path, where black stairs wrap around a tall central bollard. There are baskets at the foot of the bollard, baskets filled with tomatoes n cooked goat n cheese n wine n bread. We help ourselves. Figure we can apologise later.

It's only on her third bottle a wine Lydia breaks her silence. "My Thane, I've been thinking."

"Yuh?"

"Although it is true I am both your sword and your shield," Lies, all of it. "I think it may be for the best if I return now to Dragonsreach." Her blacked eyes slide to me. "Your business is with the Greybeards, here. But mine is to serve Whiterun. I should go, meet you there."

I tip my head to the eroded fortress peering over the stairs. "You dun want to climb just these last ten stairs?"

"No. Oh. Well." Lydia glances up at the final steep steps. "I guess so."

We climb like a couple'a rocking horses with broken legs. Black fortress spreads out before us. There is a small fire lit close to the tower; otherwise the monastery could be deserted. We crunch across the frozen flagstones.

"Hello?" I call at the partly-open door. Lydia looks worried. So am I. A bunch'a old guys like these Greybeards are bound t'be could catch their deather the cold with such a draft. No one replies, so with a hand on my sword I let Lydia n meself in, and close the door behind us.

The monastery is wonner those older-style, open plan designs the my ancient cousins are famous for. Tiles cut in patterns on the floor, not much in the way'a lighting. It occurs to me if a draft _did_ get in, then the place is likely fuller draugrs.

"Halt."

A softly spoken word, a shadow detaches itself from the floor. I start; four blokes are sittin on the tiles, a fifth approaches us. He stops well short with his hands crossed in the sleeves of his long black robe.

"You trespass on the territory of the Greybeards: state your business."

"Um," I point at Lydia, "His Jarlness of Whiterun asked us to run up and see if you needed anythin."

Standy replies. The other four are content to stare into the far wall and assimilate themselves into the pattern on the floor. "Our needs are attended by Ivarstead of the Rift. We have no need for Whiterun's assistance."

Lydia n me exchange a glance and a shrug.

"Yes, okay," she says, "No harm done. We can only offer."

We turn and walk t'wards the door. A massively deep, rumbling, and above all LOUD voice rolls over us. "I said HALT. Did I perchance to stutter?"

Lydia legs it up the hallway. I'm sorely tempted to follow. Just the thing is – the real bitch of a thing is – there's somethin about the way the old man shouted that makes me want to stop.

I turn to him. His face is not the mask a fury I's expected. He smiles tween his knotted beard. "Ah, _Dovahkiin. _ We have waited too long to meet you." He bows. "You may call me Arngeir."

The other Greybeards are suddenly on their feet. Each nods to me as they are introduced. "Borri, Einarth, Wulfgar, Happy."

Happy bobs n winks at me. I return a baffled shadow of his grin. Only Arngeir speaks. He ushers me deeper into the monastery. "Come along, Dovahkiin. Let Borri fix you a strong cup of tea whilst you and I discuss the return of the dragons."

"Right," I say, caught tween runnin after Lydia n lyin to an old man. I open my mouth n realise I'm about to tell the truth. Worse luck. "The thing is, there's been a terrible mistake. They all think I am down in Whiterun, but I'm not. I'm not the Doh- the Dovahkiin." There. I said it. Feel free to rewind time to the point this was not my problem.

The Greybeards are starin at me, oh boy are they starin. No one offers to comfort me. My face on fire, I says, "I'm just a bloke who kilt some dragons. I din take their souls, I din sign up to the Anti-Dragon Campaign. I was just in the right place at the wrong time."

I expect the Greybeards, as monks, to take this well in their stride. They do not.

Arngeir throws his hands to the ceiling. "What! Eighty years of waiting and they send us _the wrong man?_"

Borri, Wulfgar and company are shrugging and shakin their heads, silently wrathful.

I fall back towards the door. "I – I'm sorry. I-"

"SILENCE!" Arngeir roars. What a voice! Wind slams against me, dust trickles from the ceiling, the whole monastery trembles as if struck. The other Greybeards fall deathly still as Arngeir rounds on me. "You, you! You dare defile the peace of this place with no excuse bar 'sorry'? What-"

Happy holds up a hand.

Arngeir ignores him. "-in Nirn good did you think that would do you? I've every mind to strike you down where you stand. Imbecile!"

Happy starts jumpin like the smartest kid in class.

In his extreme ire, Arngeir wheels on the other monk. "Oh what is it, Happy? You know you cannot speak without crushing this one's mortal soul!"

Happy's lips wrap around a mouthful of square white teeth. Words seems to pour through him from the very belly of Nirn. "HE IS NOT THE DRAGONBORN. HE IS SOMETHING MORE."

I eyeball him, too frightened to move.

Arngeir roars, "NOW YOU'VE GONE AND DONE IT, SLAYING THE BLOODY MESSENGER!"

Taking advantage of the noise while they can, the other Greybeards begin to shout.

"I WISH I'D BEEN A DUCK," Borri remarks.

"THIS HALL IS TERRIBLY DRAFTY," Wulfgar whines, "AND EINARTH'S SNORES KEEP ME AWAKE ALL NIGHT."

"IT ISN'T MY FAULT, I SUFFER SLEEP APNOEA."

"WELL YOU BRING DOWN THE MONASTERY EVERY TIME YOU HAVE A SNOOZE."

Borri taps me on the shoulder. "WOULD YOU CARE FOR THAT CUP OF TEA NOW?"

No. No. "Shut up!" I roar, or rather, "SHUT UP!"

The Greybeards promptly shut up. Seconds pass in total stillness. Then Arngeir's eyes slither to Happy, who nods, and he glances to me.

"Er," he ventures, "Was that – did you just Shout?"

"I TOLD YOU HE COULD," said Happy happily. He winks at me. "TRY SAYING THIS: _FUS._"

As softly as he speaks, an unseen force rolls over me, draggin me t'wards the door.

"Fuss," I say.

"NO, NO, LIKE THIS," Happy draws me aside. He faces the wall. "_FUS_. SHOUT."

_Fus_. Force. FORCE. _FUS_.

"_FUS!"_

No sooner have the words rolled off my tongue than Happy explodes into red confetti, the wall ahead blows apart into the snow as easy as straw in a storm, mortar rains from the ceiling on every rebound of the echo. When at last the noise dies I look around to see the Greybeards crouched in terror on the floor, but at least that's better than Brother Happy, who is now a long red blowback streak on the tiles.

Arngeir climbs slowly to his feet. I dun dare speak.

"BROTHER HAPPY," Arngeir clears his throat, "I mean, Brother Happy was right. You are not the Dragonborn. You are something else again."

Like under arrest for the cold-blooded murder of a monk?

Arngeir drops to one knee a short distance from me. His old eyes are shining as he looks up. "Not the Dragonborn," he says, "But the Dragon King.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_ Are you pumped? Are you psyched? Are you stunned or shaking your head?  
>No, no, no! Get pumped! We're going for a hell of a ride! :D<p>

Thank you for the wonderful reviews and PMs!


	10. DOVAHJUN

_A/N:_ This is late. Please accept my apology. I was out in the heat and humidity too long yesterday and ended up with sunstroke. Today I still feel terrible...  
>But how lousy is that? Sunstroke? I thought it was only for maidens fair.<p>

Anyway, please enjoy this episode of Shufflekiin, and if you recall the days of text gaming check out my keepandshare profile for a short, sweet and very bizarre little story on that wonderful era. Hurrah!

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><p>10<p>

* * *

><p>"Not the Dragonborn," Arngeir's glistening eyes cut into my very soul, "But the Dragon King."<p>

Borri, Wulfgar and Einarth slap their swarthy chests. "DOVAHJUN!" They bow to one knee. I stare at Arngeir, too struck to speak.

I want to implore if this is some sorta joke, yet my little ferretin brain can just not hammer out who in all the world would bother to prank a dumb fuck like me.

"Why- why- what?" I stutter, feelin big n stupid n laid-out, expectin the Greybeards t'start laughing at me any second.

They don't. Arngeir stands; he regards me sternly beneath his cowl. "This is a great honour, you understand? Perhaps not so great given the current circumstances; you're hardly likely to be merited on your dragon lineage with the Dark Father on the rise again – but great nonetheless."

"I dun understand. What you're sayin-"

"Oh, come now," Arngeir smiles, but his humour is ill and grey as the macabre rock of the monastery. "For how long can you deny it? Did it not strike you as odd that your flesh does not burn in intense heat, that you speak the dragon tongue naturally, that the bitches are at your beck and call?"

How did he know all that? "But," I protest, "Maybe that is the case now, it never was before. Be- before my brother went got kilt, I – I – I burnt as good as any other Nord. I- I'd never spoken to a dragon. I-"

"For there were not dragons." Arngeir's expressions softens. He ushers me away from the long bloody streak that is ex-Brother Happy. The other Greybeards stand aside as Arngeir leads me to the kitchen. There he sits me at the table and sets about refilling the kettle from an iron cauldron.

"You are but weak," he says after a time. He ain't lookin at me but I guess he ain't talkin to the kettle. "And you are very young. Were the dragons not awakening, it is likely your heritage would never have been uncovered, and one impetuous night would have gone without repercussion. Tell me, is your mother alive?"

"In Morrowind," I say, as this seems to be an answer between the two, "Holidaying."

"And you mentioned family? A brother? Do you know your father?"

"Of course I know my ruddy father."

"Resemble him, do you ?"

"More'n likely. We're all Nords, we do tend t'have a certain similarity of being. Resistance to cold. Hearty battle cries. You know."

"I do. And yet here we are." Arngeir sets a mug in fronna me. He takes a seat behind the cheese platter. The other Greybeards fuss about with their mops in the corner. Arngeir smiles. "Forgive such abrasive questioning from an old man. I need to know the truth."

Dun mistake me: the only thing keepin me from walkin out of High Hrothgar forever is this cold, leaden sensation Arngeir is right. Also it's snowin up a blizzard outside, so bugger that. I sip my tea.

"I can't tell ya the truth. I dun know it. You're implyin my darlin mother – and dragons – and I din even believe in dragons a couple days ago. You've gotta be barkin mad."

"Probably," says Arngeir, which is of little comfort. "So humour an old senile. Your mother, she never mentioned anyone by the name of Sam Guevenne?"

Din sound like much of a dragon name. Oh, but... "I think she did, yeah. Long time ago, afore I left home. Yeah, that's right. If you ever meet a man by the name'a Sam Guevenne, punch im in the nose'n stay the Oblivion away from im! That's what she said."

Arngeir lets out a dry chuckle. "Perhaps one day you will know the story of what happened on the night of your conception." Sheesh. Now there's a line I never want to hear again. "For now, you must be content to believe me. You, boy."

"Skole."

"Skole, are a mortal man of immortal lineage, at least on your father's side. Your mother sounds enough a force on her own." I can only agree. Arngeir speaks into his tea cup. "And here we had been expecting the Dragonborn! Ha. I suspect that one too should be along soon enough."

I have a question. "If my father is a dragon, why dun I have scales?"

This is much to Arngeir's amusement. "Why indeed. Have you not heard the tale of Old King Olaf and the dragon Numinex? Some versions of the story, particularly those versions written by bards, have King Olaf himself being Numinex with the power to transform between a dragon and a man at will. Even Akatosh was said to have merely assumed the form of a dragon at the peak of the Oblivion crisis. And there are other things to consider. Perhaps you gained _that one's_ human side."

"Even so, how can me mother've lain with a dragon? They only started showin they ugly heads a few days ago!"

I could think of questions for days and days, for as long as it kept me from goin out into the world t'be shot by the first savvy guard with a bow'n arrow.

"Not all dragons rest, Dovahjun. There are those who combatted the slumber of death." Arngeir sets down his tea, drained. "I can't share with you more without knowing better your allegiance."

"Right then. Why-"

"'_What'_ should be your question. What is my next move? What can I do to prove my allegiance? Will you be asking that now, or do you need time to think, and put into practise what you have learnt at High Hrothgar?"

The one thing I dun need time t'think bout is how I need time t'think bout things. "I dunno," I say, as it's as good an answer as any. "If what you're tellin me is true – if I'm half dragon- I mean, everyone sure was stoked I'd kilt those pair'a dragons..."

"You have the soul of a mortal," says Arngeir, gently, "No dragon you slay will stay dead, not as it would if struck down by the Dovahkiin."

"Then I can't even slay dragons. Which was about the only thing I were ever good at." I sigh. Back to bein myself again, it seems.

"All is not lost. Your father is a great dragon, your mother a terrifying woman. And you, Skole, are a formidable man by both birth and by action. Keep in mind that the only way forward may not be to render extinct Skyrim's dragons, and you will do well." He stands. "Now. If we are done, you have given me a rather large hole to repair."

Descending the Seven Thousand Stairs is a heckova lot easier than the reverse. I sprint past the troll with my pockets laden with supplies, while the troll swears heartily n pegs snowballs at my head.

By mid-afternoon I'm in Riften, where I pocket some easy gold pawnin the contents of an alchemist's satchel I, er, found in a, er, abandoned shack. My first item of business in the capital is to organise Margeth's funeral. The man at the Hall'a the Dead tells me he's good to go whenever the funeral ceremony is done, but only the Temple'a Mara can do the ceremony and it already has two weddins booked for the afternoon and can't get to the funeral until tomorrow. I tell the young priest there that's fine, as I have no desire t'get back ter Whiterun too soon. Oh sure they'll all be overjoyed at the news their hero is half dragon. Whoopde-fuckin-doo. Irileth will prob'ly have my hide as her new leather underwear.

Riften is exactly the same as always, vendors hockin their wares from the town centre n some poor beggar shoutin as he drowns in the canals down below. Skooma-riddled Argonians shuffle soullessly up and down the docks, as blank-faced as if the screeching gulls had taken their eyes. The Black-Briars are insidious as their namesakes, strangling the wealth of the city, gettin blown from every angle as the general population struggle to stay afloat. The canals stink of sewage and the government stinks of corruption. Gods, it feels like home.

I'm kickin up dust out fronna the Temple, wonderin whether I should head up to Shor's for the night or get drunk n pass out on the floor'a the Bee n Barb, when up sallies the most peculiar Dunmer I've ever laid eyes on.

Like a boy, he's wearin shorts, and he has on this yellow shirt which swamps his scrawny frame, big red welts on the shirt like plague welts. A floppy cloth hat squats on his dark hair, and of all the wretched footwear in Tamriel, he's wearing bloody sandals. Sandals! It's a wonder he hasn't stepped on a bear.

"Nice Temple," he nods to said temple. "I'm a priest'a Mara, actually."

I nod. Good for him. Bit of a strange occupation for a Dunmer dressed as a spaceman, but who was I to talk? I'm the ruddy Dovahjun.

I must be givin him evils or somethin, however, cause he looks down his front and then laughs. "Oh, I'm on holiday at the moment. Need a bweak from all that nasty business – well, never mind – in Dawnstar. I've been up there fowever, it feels. Never seen the Temple'a Mawa. It's weally something ewse."

What was weally something ewse is how his voice just allova sudden changed from the clipped Dunmer accent to somethin you'd dread hearin in Windhelm's Grey Quarter late on a Fredas night. The Windhelm accent teeters between ars and waws.

"The name's Erandur," the Dunmer sticks out his hand. He has a handshake like an Expert thunder spell. "You are?"

"Skole. Skole Stone."

"Are you a wegular of Mawa's?"

Sort of wantin to get rid of him, I say curtly, "My brother is dead. I'm here organising his funeral."

"Oh. I don't have any brothers. But both me parents are dead, and it was up ter me to organise _their_ last huwahs. I know how awful it can be. Can I buy you a dwink? You look like you could use one."

Such kindness from a stranger. I wipe a tear from my eye. "Sure. Bee n Barb?"

Erandur considers. He nods. "If that's the local waterwin hole, I'm weady."

Ten hours and seventy-nine beers later, we're stumblin north along the road ter Shor's Stone. I'm teachin Erandur a song about teenage girls. He's just taught me one called 'The Arch-Mages's Staff Has A Knob On The End'.

"Eran-Eran-Eran-Eran-Eran-Eran-Eran-Eran-Eran-Eran," I say, as he practices the teenage girl song, "Back at me house, right, there's this wonderful chick with this arse you could just sink yer fist into, if you want to, if you wanna, if you wanna you know."

Eran leaves off singin to gape. "A _stunt whore?_ You've got a ruddy stunt whore in your house!" I nod. "Aw, cor! Let's hurry!"

We're doin just that when from above the trees there is a WHUMP, and the great shadowy form of a dragon alights before us.

Erandur and me stop dead on the road. The dragons rears its head. Erandur cries, "Sweet Vaermina! Someone call Animal Control – it's a blasted dragon!"

We both burst out laughing. "Go on," I says to the dragon, "On yer bloody rocker."

"Yeah, take a hike."

We saunter past the beast. From the corner of my eye I catch smoke peelin from its nostrils. It follows our progress with one idle yellow eye.

"Oi, Erandur," I thump him on the head, "Block yer ears."

He does.

My throat feels suddenly strange, my belly full of fire. I wheel on the duplicitous dragon, and shout, "DIN YER HEAR ME, SCALY? I SAID ON YER BLOODY HORSE!"

Trees shook; the grass caught alight. Clouds drained into the moon. The dragon remains frozen for an instant, then, with a fantastic clamour of wings it leaps to the air and _WHUM-WHUM-WHUM-_ beats it like a bat outta a spriggan cave.

"See," I say to Erandur, urging him to uncover his ears. "Tole you I was the Dovahjun."

He frowns. "No you never."

Silence between us. Um. Surely I would have mentioned it somewhere between the first drink at the Bee n Barb and the last in the bottom of Maven Black-Briar's mead warehouse. At last I venture, "I'm sure I did."

"No, you never."

"Well all right, I am. I'm the- the- the thing- the dragon king. The sort of hero who's supposed to take out all the dragons, cept opposite."

Erandur regards me sombrely. There's not many a creature can regard you more sombrely'n a Dunmer.

"Right," he says after a few long seconds' pondering, "That being the case, you being a hero, maybe you can help me?"

I'm pissed as a pissed pig and highly agreeable. "Yup. Sure. Anything you want. Just don't tell anyone I'm the dragon thing. King."

"You see I've got this bit of a problem with a curse-"

"Look, Eran. I already agreed. Dun talk me outta it, just lead the way."

Erandur seems for a minute he might protest. Then he shrugs, and nods along the northbound path. "Suit yourself. To Dawnstar it is.

* * *

><p>Dawnstar?<p>

_A/N_: Why am I speaking like Solid Snake?

Thanks for the love you awesome peeps keep sending my way, be sure to tune in next week, where we'll take the turn into the final part of this er, part!


	11. A Fool's Funeral Dirge

_A/N:_ Don't get me wrong; I love the bloody arse off Erandur. And J'zargo. Looking up the followers' stat sheet, I was oddly surprised to see Erandur has the highest stamina out of any follower, at 377. No wonder he's a bottemless pit of swords and armour.

But wanting to experiment with followers, it's easy to gain a sense of disloyalty. I swear she means nothing to me, Iona! :O

Also, about that particular error in here... it's intentional. ;)

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><p>11<p>

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><p>Next morning we was halfway across the Pale and I was rapidly losing my mind.<p>

"My brother – I forgot my brother's funeral!"

Somewhere in the drunken depths'a the night Eran n me had procured horses, one a chestnut mare I borrowed from couple Cloakers outside Shor's after we couldn't get Sylgja's door open, the other this huge, muscular, black, evil-lookin stallion which silently bore Eran along the hills with flames billowing from its snout n its red eyes glistenin.

Person'ly I reckoned there were a problem with Eran's horse, horses oughtn't do that, if you steal a horse and it starts blowin fire out its nose y'might want to very speedily reconsider yer career as a horse-thief, tether the beast to the nearest sturdy tree, change yer name, move towns, n devote yerself to the study of godly way.

Eran dun seem bothered. We'd been trottin along quite pleasantly before I'd recalled Margeth. "It's all right," he says as I panic, "I'm a priest of Mara – I can go through the ceremony with you if you'd like."

I glance hopelessly at him. "What use is that gun be? Funeral's in Riften."

He regards me sternly over the stallion's corded neck. "You tol me yer family was gone to Mowwowind. Who else is going t'be at the funeral, aside fwom you and the pwiest of Mawa?"

Mow. Wow. Ind.

Despite meself I start to relax. I'm laughin too much not to. "Well. I guess so, but we dun have no body nor no Hall'a the Dead."

"Isn't he somewhere on the south Border, your bwother?"

He has a point. "Ayuh."

Eran takes this as his cue to relapse into his best priest's voice. "If we don't have a body, then we don't need a place to put it. I'll go through the words of the ceremony with you and you can pretend you're back in Riften."

This seems to be the best offer going, and it sure beats trottin back ter Riften on a couple stolen horses, especially since the last time I did that. With snow meltin at the black stallion's hooves, we dock at a spruce and tether the beasts. There we stand in reverent silence beneath the towering spruces.

They creak in the breeze. Eran has an apple in his hand, courtesy of the stallion's saddlebags. The northern breeze tousles the snow. There're no yetis and no dragons, and no wolves neither. Just peace.

Erandur breaks it.

"Dear friends. We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of," he tips his red eyes to me.

"Margeth Stone."

"Margeth Stone, a hearty, hale young Argonian of the most ambitious calibre. He will be missed, both in thought and in scale, and no longer will his voice boom through the dockside warehouse, and no longer will his spawn swim gaily in the waters of Lake Yorgrim, and no longer shall he shed his skin in the springtime rockeries.

"It is in mournful celebration we remember him this Second Seed eve, consoling ourselves only that his memory lives on in his parents,"

Again he glances at me. "Hassellis and Wand," I say.

"His thirteen siblings,"

I have to think fast for this one. "Including Bodilla, Froda and Skole."

"And his eight hundred juvenile offspring, too numerous to be named. Mara be with you, Margeth Stone."

He then throws the apple high amongst the branches, moving with the utmost reverence and grace, and when the apple plummets back down to Nirn it buries itself in a foot of fresh snow. Erandur pushes in the crater with the side of his sandal.

We bow our heads in silence. I wonder what in Oblivion I just heard. Presently, Erandur says, "I hope you don't mind – I didn't know the details of your brother, so I just went with the last ceremony I performed."

I nod. "It was fine." Somehow befitting my wayward brother. "Thanks."

Then I start to cry. Not really for Margeth. For the useless, addiction-riddled, thieving, bumbling future he coulda had. For myself, and the grievous future Margeth's final actions had led me to. I turn away from Erandur, but the stupid tears keep rolling down my face. We should have both died old fools, Margeth n me, old fools driven senile from too much drink and indecent livin. Now he was a poor young dead fool and I was a livin sober one.

Erandur ducks in front'a me. "You'll be okay."

I nod. It's all I can do. If any dragons showed up now I'd just let em eat me. Yet I'm not upset as I was, and somehow I get it that as close as Margeth n me was, with all our stupid plots and pranks, that he's gone, and I'm here, and I can live with that.

And so I pull it together. Erandur passes me a handkerchief. I blow my nose loudly and hand it back to him.

He shakes his head. "Keep it."

It _is _kinda mucus-y. I stuff it into my pocket. Okay. Now t'muscle me way through me embarrassment; cryin in fronna another man like that! The shame.

"Right," I say, tryin to sound like my cahones are level with me knees, "You said y'had summin t'do in Dawnstar? Some sorta problem with a Temple?"

Erandur, roundin on the black stallion, freezes. "Er." He turns stiffly to me. "That's right. Mind you, it's not so much a problem as a challenge. Er."

I slap my mare on the rump and hop onto the saddle. "What's the challenge, then?"

"Well all right, it is a problem." Erandur climbs awkwardly onto the stallion, slides back to the snow, tries again, fails again, takes a running jump the third time and hauls his carcass onto the saddle. The stallion bears this with a patience born of righteous fury. "You see, the town of Dawnstar is built in a rather, guess you'd say _inopportune_ spot. Right down the hill from Nightclubber Temple, ach'ly. The problem is there, I'm sure; there's just something eewie about Nightclubber Temple, weally eewie. Ev'wyone in Dawnstar's started having these terrible nightmares. Obviously the Temple is implicated somehow."

"If the Temple's the culprit, why dun the town guard mosey on up and place it under arrest?"

"It isn't that swaightforward. The Temple's abandoned; there's nobody for the guards to awwest. No, solving this case will take a detective of the metaphysical. Since Dawnstar's my awea, you know, where I was born and all that, and as I'm a pwiest of Mawa, the duty to investigate is mine."

The horses start off through the forest at a steady trot. I frown at Erandur. "It's your duty to investigate a temple near Dawnstar, so you went to Riften for a holiday?"

"Yes." Eran gives a solemn nod. "I'm ach'ly what you call a coward. I sort of – I mean, the pwoblem," he sighs. "I just can't bwing myself to go it alone."

Well, dungeon diving is always better with a friend. Or an army.

"It turns out I'm also a coward," I say to him. "The Greybeards tol me I was the Dovahjun and all I could think to do was run for me life." I gesture around the quiet, cold forest. "That's why I's here. I oughta be in Whiterun, discussin with His Jarlness how t'kill every Argonian with wings. But it ain't gun happen that way. I just .. I just can't do it."

Erandur regards me curiously. "Surely you would be welcomed as a hewo. And you would have all the support you could wish for. Ev'wy army in Skywim would be alongside you!"

We'd talked a lot through the night about the dragons (or dwagons). Erandur was happy to talk about what I was doin, about my potential siring by a dragon, about the attacks on towns and what the great plan would be to stop them. He made a few vague illusions to this here "challenge" in Dawnstar; more than anythin emphasisin how we needed to get to Nightclubber Temple toot-sweet.

He'd done me a favour. Two of em. He'd listened, and he'd given Margeth his last rites. And now he was givin me an excuse not to do my duty.

"Bein a hero ain't just about fightin dragons," I tell him, "It's about reachin out to the everyday Skyrimmer. It'd be my honour to help you."

The Dunmer hesitates. "It could potentially be dangewous."

"More dangerous than fighting dragons?"

"Ah. Maybe not."

"Then lead the way."

* * *

><p>Dawnstar comes into view a couple hours later, a small clutch of buildings on a frozen bay.<p>

It's one place I never bothered tryin to scam nobody, if only cause they're all broke tough as runt skeevers and anyway I never cared for ghosts, and in Dawnstar and the Pale such stories of the restless dead abound.

Erandur however seems right at home. He hums a cheerless little funeral dirge as we round the final bend into Dawnstar. The horses we leave reigned to a couple of wiry spruces on the outskirts of town. Eran, humming, intent, leads us up to the inn. A few of the guards greet him along the way.

"This is Skole, Thane of Whiterun," he tells them each time, "He's going to help me with my investigations."

"Oh, good," one guard replies along with a heartfelt sigh. "I can't take much morer these nightmares. Night after night, the same thing ... I'm afraid to go to sleep!"

Her partner mutters his agreement. It's a similar story inside the Windpeak Inn. People look haggard, on edge, dozing into their tankards before rising sharply to glare about them. A cloud of murmurs tags us to the bar.

"Just lettin you know I'm back," Eran calls to the barkeep, "This is the Thane of Whiterun, Skole. He's going t'help me figure out the cause of these nightmares."

The barkeep is noticeably relieved. He gives Erandur a worried smile and me a nod. 'Thank the Divines fer that. Irgnir n Fruki were in here again this mornin, complainin. Way this is goin we'll have to shut down the mines."

"Why d'you say that?" I wonder.

The barkeep pours two drinks as Eran and me straddle our seats, and slides them over the counter to us. Somewhere off to the left a girl is strummin a lute. Talk about a nightmare. "Karl in the Iron-Breaker Mine stuck a pick in his kneecap he was so drowsy. And Borgny fell asleep in fronna the smelter, nearly burned himself to death. Without sleep we can't work."

"It'll be sorted out today," Erandur says quickly. "Last night's nightmares were your last."

"I hope so, ey? Good luck to yer both."

Another patron calls for the barkeep's attention, and he hurries away. I face Erandur. "The nightmares; have you figured out what's causin them?"

Erandur nearly chokes on his mead. I thump him between the shoulder blades until he stops spluttering. He throws me a hasty glance. "What causes them? I know. I wish I didn't."

While Erandur is wonner the cheerfullest Dunmers I've ever met (I'd say only cheerful Dunmer, but Romlyn down in Riften ain't half bad at sportin a bloke a drink), he has his people's habit of becoming instantly overwhelmingly depressing. I's can almost see the black lines of melancholy writhin above him.

"It's Vaermina," he says softly, in his most solemn priest's voice. "The Daedric Lord residing in the heart of Nightclubber Temple. She devours memories and leaves nightmares to fill the void in subconscious. If she isn't stopped the people of Dawnstar will be permanently demented."

The barkeep is returnin. Erandur snaps out of his mood. He drains his glass n slaps it on the counter. "Thank you, Thoring. We'll be off now, wish us luck."

Thoring bows over the bar. "Good luck, and God speed."

Outside the breeze is cool and the snow shines brilliantly on the rooftops. Erandur leads us between buildings and heads uphill. I feel a little warmer for the mead, and braver for my desertion of Whiterun. Oh yer Jarlness, I really had to help in this perilous quest, fer the sake'a aller Skyrim... some such lies I'd tell him.

"Nightclubber Temple may be in ruins." Drawin me from my thoughts, Erandur gestures to the crumblin black tower gripping the peak above the bay. "That doesn't mean it isn't dangerous."

"Well it _is _the temple of a fairly evil Daedric lord," I point out, "I din think it'd be no walk in the park." Although these days, a walk in a Skyrim park would likely involve bears, dragons, and at least one bloody civil war.

Eran looks at me, seems on the verge'a sayin somethin else, but thinks better of it and goes back ter hummin the funeral march. We fetch the horses and goad them up the hill, snow up to their knees. The chill turns the bay water to the palest blue. Soon the white slope broadens into a sweeping avenue opening onto the ruined temple. I can see somethin large moving around outside the doors. I nod to the movement as we tether the horses to a decaying barbican.

"Frostbite spiders," Eran puffs. He pauses for no more'n a second. "Righto. Nothin we can't handle."

The spiders spy us a hundred yards from the Temple. Three of em. I'm not too bothered. Gimme spiders over draugr any damn day. They cross the avenue with gruesome speed, skimmin their fat behinds across the snowdrift, multitudinous legs groping for purchase. I read that in a book once, always wanted to use it. Pity it was happening to me-

I have my sword out and I take a swing at one spider as it jumps for me. Another darts sideways and knocks me ass-over in the snow. It rushes me again, mandible twitchin, black eyes glitterin like a pestilent sun hitting the exposed guts of somthin not yet dead. I raise my sword and a jet of flames strikes the spider and bashes it into a fallen pillar.

"Heads!" sings Erandur.

I bite the snow. The sword scratches my belly. Flames roar overhead. The air is filled with cracklin fire and spider screams. In moments it's over. I lift my head t'see Eran in a kung fu pose n the three spiders smoulderin in the snow. He gives me a hand up, and a high five when I discover I've not disembowelled meself, but in truth he has eyes for the temple and the temple alone.

"I built a small shrine to Lady Mara at the entrance," he tells me darkly as we approach the door. "So far it's not done much. That's part of the reason I visited Riften; I hoped Lady Mara herself may inspire a solution."

"I'm here, ain't I?"

Eran puts his hand against the temple door, and looks at me.

"Well I am."

"You are," he agrees at last. "Let's just hope you're still here when we finish."


	12. Nightclubber Temple

_A/N:_ What's this? The RTF plug-in is down. We're a day late, but it's a big chapter. :D With that said, let's get into it!  
>Thank y'all for your support!<p>

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><p>12<p>

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><p>"Watch your step," Eran warns as soon as we step in the door. "I don't know if the – er, that is. Be careful."<p>

I'm lookin at a small tidy alter in an otherwise ruined antechamber. I slide m'eyes sideways to Eran. "You sure thain't nothin you want to tell me?"

"Quite sure," he nods. Then his sombre expression becomes wonner wretchedness. "Oh, damn it all. Skole, this isn't the first time the Nightclubber Temple has caused nightmares. Years ago the same thing happened to a band of Orcs. The Orcs realised Vaermina was the cause and attacked the Temple. Sensing the situation was helpless, the priests here, well. You'll see."

He heads for the gloomy rear wall. I stand my ground near the door. Dread prickles the back'a me neck. I dun like this, not one tiny bit.

"Erandur. Either tell me what's goin on, or I'm out."

I see him stop. He dun speak. Nor does he look at me.

"I mean it, man. You can't just send me in there blind."

Eran mutters somethin, lookin rigoddamndiculous in his lairy shirt n short pants. He glances over his shoulder, as if t'check I'm still here. I am, so he turns, looks at his sandals, finally meets my eyes. It'd be more effective if there weren't an alter blockin two thirds of his head.

"There's a type of... miasma... in the Temple beyond this wall." Eran thumps the rear wall. It sounds solid enough, no doors or ninja tubes. "Everyone was in here, y'see, everyone fighting, so to stop it we – they – cut the power, but that exploded the transformer on the atmospheric mist machine, killing the overdrive switch, and ..." His red eyes search my face, for what I dunno. "The Temple filled up with miasma. They weren't killed, but they were forced into hibernation. And the miasma, it can rot your brain after a while. I'm afraid when we open up the Temple, the fog will dissipate, and the priests and Orcs will awaken as brain-dead zombies."

Oh. My. Holy. Goat.

I sidled t'wards the door. "Yeah, see, I's not so keen on brain-dead zombies. Or any other sort of zombies."

"Well they won't be _literally_ zombies," says Erandur, as if he spects this makes it any better. "They're still alive, they're just totally mindless and violent. Look, hold on. I'll open the Temple and we'll find out."

He casts a fire ward over the rear wall. It shimmies out of existence, leaving a big ugly purple swirling eye in its wake. Eran steps right through. Moment later he ducks his head back into the antechamber. "Looks like the atmosphewic mist is still awound. Wow! It's weally vewy atmosphewic!"

Reluctantly, I follow him. Through the purple eye which feels like nothin more than a slight warmth against me skin. The antechamber opens onto another small room, than a hall. It's very dark. Purple mist like cloud tangled on mountain peaks roams across the floor.

I have my suspicions about ole Erandur. "How d'you know so much bout what happened here?"

He's leadin the way now, through the stone tunnels, across the large, dimly lit rooms. "I was a priest of Vaermina meself once. I was young and stupid. Not that that excuses it. There was just somethin about their ideas – like we all had long fringes and composed emotional poetry – somethin which appealed to me.

"And then there was their music. They called it mid-80's hardcore electro punk . Whatever that means. I never weally understood it, cept fer the music. That's what kept me in the shadower Vaermina." Eran catches the look on me face and hurriedly adds, "Of course I've spent decades living in wegwet of that vewy lifestyle. Bein a pweist of such an evil cweature; I'll never forgive myself."

While this sounds impressive, I know there are Dunmer out there who live in penance for eating breakfast fifteen minutes early, or not likin their aunt's new salon tan.

I's could hold it against him, I guess. But the same I dun hold a woman's breedin gainst her I dun hold a man accountable to his past decisions. Only one man can blame hisself for somethin much as he can, and that's him.

"Eran," I says, "Get the damnation on up the path."

Erandur hesitates, and smiles. "Maybe Lady Mara did help me."

We keeps on goin til there we see in the murk and atmospheric mist this figure, and there another one beside it, both staggerin to sort out they heads from they asses. Couple Orcs, the looker em.

Eran has a torch pinched from the antechamber; he leans forward with it, callin, "Er, hello?"

Wonner the Orcs makes a weird noise and Erandur yells and jumps forward and smacks it over the head with his mace. The other one turns to him and he gives it a faceful of magic fire. Both Orcs collapse, one whimperin, the other in a gently smoulderin heap.

"Gee whiz, Eran. Blokes din even have a chance ter speak!"

"Ah. Sorry. Guess I'm just a little jumpy." Erandur chews his lip. He shrugs. "Well, shall we continue."

"Yeah, just remind me not to sneak up on you."

On we go. Past Orcs – you wouldn't believe these Orcs, got their little leather armour n spikes n their hair all done up – and these priests what ain't much better what with their mopey long tunics and black hair all in their eyes. Each time one rises, Erandur thumps them over the head n then apologises to me.

Kinda a funny tower, too. Obviously it goes real deep. The passages sort of wind around a central chamber, but are meshed off, and there's this pulsing light comin from the bottom and this throb like music without the music, if you get what I mean.

Soon we come to another ugly purple eye. Here Eran stops dead, his shoulders slumped, arms dangling by his sides. It takes him a while to work up the nous to say, "We need to break through this seal to get to the main chamber. I can't do it from this side – or perhaps even this space-time instance. We may need the dream-stride."

I've knocked out a few Orcs meself by this stage and frankly I can see why Erandur is so jumpy. "Oh yeah?" I glance around. "What's that?"

"Dream-stride is a secret alchemical recipe created by followers of Vaermina who wish to follow her into dreams, more commonly known as methamphetamine. If one of us takes it, we may be able to move through the final minutes of those who inhabited the Temple, and remove this seal."

Do meth, move through time. Got it.

"Are you mad?" I demand. "At the very least, won't that muck up the thing, the space-time thing? Continuum?"

Erandur shakes his head. "This Temple has wemained untouched since it was sealed. It was an act of impulse to cast this seal – nothing will be impacted by its wemoval, except you and me will be able to move forward."

"You seem to know a lot about this seal. How do you know the Temple weren't touched, anyway? How many others survived?"

"No one. No one survived."

I jab Eran in the ribs. He grunts. "You survived," I accuse, "Yain't no ghost."

"Sorry, Skole?" He says loudly, turnin away, "I didn't catch that."

"I said-"

"NOT A SINGLE SURVIVOR. WHAT A TEWIBLE THING TO BEFALL US. OH LOOK, MORE ORCS."

There's a boom from the hallway right of the seal as Erandur sets someone else on fire. I come after him, stabbin where stabbin was needed.

"Hey, you're at least gonna be the one to take this dream-stride stuff, ain't ya?"

Turns out he wasn't. Half an hour of searchin through books n brainin priests later, we find ourselves a battered book with the recipe for crystal meth, and the kind of alchemy lab which would'a had Margeth reachin for his silver spoon in excitement.

Erandur is no less melancholic fer our success. He stands sombrely over the alchemy lab, perhaps caught up in the past, perhaps lamentin not doin his laundry beforehand.

"Right," he says at length, while I stand there excavatin my nostrils, "That's the last of the moon sugar. It only needs simmer a while. Do you want to go over the plan again?"

"I take the dream-stride, you sit here composin poetry, I go see the bosses in the main chamber and then go up and cut the power, and _then_ I take the soul gem to keep the ward goin up. That's if I dun go instantly mad or wind up in the wrong memories entirely."

"Fingers crossed." Erandur hands me a dish fuller spitting brackish liquid. "Now don't be frightened if you find yourself doing and saying things you never usually would. The point of this is to follow as close as possible in the footsteps of the dreamer."

"Wait. How d'you know I'll follow the right person?"

Erandur frowns. "I'm sure."

"What if that person dies? Will I die?"

"They won't die."

"How do you know? You just told me there were no survivors!" I can think of protests all day long, or at least until the crystal meth has eaten through the dish. "What did you look like so I know not to hit you? How do I get back out of the dream? Wait – what-"

Erandur puts one hand on me arm and another on the backer me neck and jams the bowl into my face. The fumes of the dream-stride hit me before the liquid. The fumes, then the taste of too much sweetness, then...

Music...

Electricity...

Squirming bodies...

Dance.

Holy shit. I stop runnin and grab my face. Gaunt. Big pointy ears. Shit. I'm dressed in purple like some dumb dorky dark priest. I rip off a glove to show a thin grey-blue hand. I knew it! I'm bloody Erandur!

All around me is this pulsin energy, this light and electricity. People are... fighting? No. The music is loud and clear. It sounds like the Rapture played by storm atronachs. The light strobes green, purple, yellow, red, black, illuminating the figures on the dance floor. The Orcish musicians with their war drums bangin rawhide for their lives. The Vaermina worshippers stampin n shoutin to the song of the storm.

Is it a storm, or is it reality being shredded like a paper napkin?

_BAM BAM BAM!_

I cut a path through the writhing figures. I'm needed elsewhere. Through a hall where the dance-off continues, then into a high-roofed vault which must be the annexe to the central chamber. Two priests are waiting fer me.

"Brother Casimir," one greets me. Behind him in the central chamber there's this thing, this unbelievable thing, throwin out light and music and this electric sensation of chaos. "This has gone too far. We hafta stop the Gre'a Zurs."

The other draws in t'wards us. "Indeed. Brother Casimir, you must cut the power. This madness will not end until you do."

I stutter. I say, "B-but how will we ever best the Gre'a Zurs if we don't stand and fight?"

One, I know his name is Veren Duleri, sneers at me impatiently. "You fool, don't you see there is no way we can best them? The Gre'a Zurs have trained too well. The nightmares our mid-80's hardcore electro punk induced has immuned them to it. Even on our home turf, their fierce drum solos and gnarly rifts have us against the wall."

The other brother, Thorek, reaches out and grabs me by the shoulders. "Understand us well, Brother." He takes a deep breath, looks me in the eye, and blurts, "You know those wankers are all up in our business. You've got to take them down, blood. You've got to take them down even if it kills you and you die or whatever, because if you don't then we've got them in here at our pad or whatever, you know, the place where we're at right now and all that and where our stuff is and that, and if you don't take them down then they're going to get in here, isn't they, they're going to get in here and turf us out on account of we isn't as cool as they is, and they know that know on account of they've got our pad now man and we don't, because we lost."

"Nor must they lay hand on the Skull of Corruption," Brother Duleri says with a sweeping backwards glance at the thing on the alter behind him. "Do you understand, Brother Casimir? Do you know what would happen if they were to capture this, our greatest treasure, the artefact of Vaermina?"

I shrug. "Th-"

"They would bloody mix their musical genre with ours, that's what they'd do," Thorek rattles at the speed of a laden mine cart rolling down a 15 degree slope. "If them with their meaty beats and their sick enrapturing hip hop tunes were to ever shake cocktails with our hardcore electro rock, because that's what would happen if them, the Orcs, was ever to come in here and see our Skull of Corruption which they will because they're winning the dance-off and next thing they'll be in here mixing what they do with what Vaermina does and we won't have any say in it because SHIT, blood, we'll be out in the snow by then, we'll be all dead and tired and shit, and all of Tamriel will be doomed and it will be all YOUR fault, Casimir, because here just listening to me like some pop-listening sissy when you could be up there potentially having poetry written about your heroic deeds although that won't happen anyway on account of we'll all be dead when it happens, like not dead-dead, but at least asleep forever which is just as bad but at least Tamriel will be saved, so that's in the Orcs' faces or something or whatever."

Duleri nods. "Yes, you're quite right, Brother Thorek. The Orcs would either bring about the death of all Tamriel, or its unification. Either way it's against the will of Vaermina. So go, Casimir! Cut the power to our sick hardcore amplifiers, while there is still time!"

"Innit though," says Thorek to Duleri, "He cuts the power and the Orcs won't have nothing to dance to."

"Innit it," Duleri agrees.

"Classic," I say. There is a bang and a groan from the crowd. They dun sound like Orchish groans. My fellow brothers are alarmed. Duleri spins me round and shoves me t'wards the hall.

"Go! We'll start writing haiku about your heroic death!"

I run, if only because if I dun build up speed then I'll never get through the crowd. Brother Casimir is a good deal skinnier'n I'm use to bein. We run though room after room of strobin lights and walls thumpin with bass, rooms full of dancin figures forming tight knots around competitors. The priests were totally outclassed by the Orcs, that much was obvious even to a fiddle-tinkerer like me. The music from either side clashes and jams and breaks my ears and at long last starts to sound as sweet as the rivers of Sovngarde.

I find the power switch without too many ladies attemptin to dance with me, and throw it. Sparks shower from the wall. Vaermina be damned! There are grates in the walls where the atmospheric mist rolls out, but as the sparks rain down the mist begins to billow from the grates. Soon it's swarming around my hips, my chest. The music is growin drowsy n I can't think why I'm here.

The Skull of Corruption, the haiku, the seal.

The seal.

The seal.

Almost by accident I reach out and snatch the soul gem from its bracket. The purple eye fades into non-existence. The lights are dim. I see Erandur standin across the doorway, and I have to pat my face to convince me I'm I again.

"Thank Mawa you're all wight." Erandur steps through the doorway. He grabs my hand and shakes it vigorously. "You did well, Skole, better than well. I can't believe the dweam-stwide worked so perfectly! Come on, shall we finish this off? All we need do now is banish the Skull of Cowuption."

I dun feel right just yet. Too much moon sugar still buzzing round in my head. I stagger after Erandur as he hurries back the way I'd come. "That music – the dance-off with the Gre'a Zurs. That chav, Brother Thorek. I was you, wasn't I?"

"No," says Erandur. I just look at him. Even with his back turned my bemusement drills through his skull. "Oh, awwight. I'm Casimir. Or I was. I haven't used that name since I left the Temple that day. Nor have I held faith in Vaermina."

"What- what happened, but? Why aren't you stuck down here with the rest of the hardcore electro rockers and the hip hoppers?"

Erandur throws me a hasty glance. "If you must know the twuth, I can't dance. My duties as a pwiest of Vaermina were pwetty mild – mainly killing and maiming. It's just how I am; I was born with a deficiency in expwessing myself thwough whythmic motion. That's why I was sent to cut the power."

"Then you ran away?"

Eran nods. "I was fwightened what the elders would say to me when they found out I'd bwoken the atmosphewic mist machine. Skole, they may have forced me to dance. Even – even thinking about it now, I still get the shivers. I wegwet evewy day what happened here, but the twuth of it is, I still can't dance."

"Have you ever really tried?" We're deep down now, almost back to Duleri and Thorek. We're constantly steppin over bodies of slumberin dancers. Yet the atmospheric mist is still thick here, and none attempt to rise.

"I did. After leaving here, I joined the Bard's College in Solitude. They kicked me out when I attempted to introduce electwo wock jamming sessions. Oh, there was that other minor incident where they tole me I wasn't allowed to sacwifice me fellow students and use their blood to write poetry." Erandur sighs. "It was more than that. They just didn't understand hardcore electwo wock can be so much more than obnoxious noise; it can become the key to an individual's fweedom!"

Such as runnin the fuck away from a bunch'a weirdo purple dancers.

But Eran seems so glum that I'm encouraged to cheer him. "Hey, man. How about you make up your own dance? Fuck the rhythm. To Oblivion with what everybody else thinks – you're a free elf now. Well, nearly."

"Yeah." Erandur glances at me, nearly trips over an Orc, "Maybe if we get out of here, I'll do that."

It ain't until the hall into the main chamber the bodies on the floor thin out. Fact there's only two in here. I recognise one handsome head as belongin to Veren Duleri. The other? Thorek, the chav, of course. They appear to be embracing. There dun seem to be as much atmospheric mist in this room as the others.

"Close the door," Erandur says in a hoarse whisper. I do. Wouldn't want the miasma dissipating from that lotta pumped-up freaks out there.

There's movement from Station Duleri. I draw Erandur to a halt. He's seen, but unlike me he ain't none too bothered. Fact is he's positively overjoyed.

"Bwother!" he cries, rushin fer Duleri. He helps the brother to stand. Duleri comes up wiping his mouth and scowlin like he's hopin we dun figure out what he was doin down there on the floor when the miasma set in. Before long Thorek is up as well, both'a em wobbly-kneed and holdin their heads. Eran helps em get their bearings. His charity convinces me to come a little closer. You can bet my hand dun leave my sword fer a second.

"Bwothers, how have you been?" Erandur is sayin, flittin back n forth tween em. "Don't answer that. Oh, it's so good to see you again!"

But the brothers in their purple dresses aren't half as happy to see Eran as he is them.

"What... has happened?" Duleri wonders, clutchin onto Eran for support. "Why are you back here, Brother Casimir? Didn't you cut the power? That music..."

We can still hear the throb of bass from the next room, the central chamber where the Skull of Corruption is throwin a party all for itself.

Thorek narrows his eyes. He shoves me lightly. "Who's this, blood? And what's the deal then with you, yeah, Casimir, what with you being all like older than you were when I just saw you – and those clothes you got on like some old geezer or whatever! I know what you did!" he roars, "You broke the atmospheric mist machine and ran away, blood!"

"What is this scandal?" Duleri pulls away from Erandur. I feel a lot like a fourth wheel, and not in the standard good way. The way Veren looks, I dun even want to be part of this tricycle. "You – you betrayed us! After we took you in and gave you free dancing lessons: is this how you repay us?"

Erandur is stricken. "Brother Vewen, no! I was only worried-"

"Enough!" Duleri draws back an arm seems long as the horizon and swipes his hand over Eran's face in a ringing slap. Erandur stumbles into me. I push him back behind me. Duleri sneers at me. "_You._ Don't tell me you're one of these _pro_-rockers. Abandoning the teachings of the old gods in favour of Nirn-shattering beats and epic electrolute solos."

Electrowhatnow? "Hey! I ain't nonna that. I be the Dovahjun, brother, and I dun hafta put up with yo trash-talking!" And I slap Duleri with the back of me hand.

Thorek leaps on me. Next thing I know we're rollin on the stones, Duleri eggin us on from the sidelines. I taste blood as Thorek punches me. I drive my knee into his guts and manage to throw him off. I look around. Eran is nowhere to be seen. The door into the roomful of bodies is open.

Thorek notices me lookin n smirks. He wipes his swelling jaw. "Bitch gotcha, huh? Casimir is a coward, blood, y'all should know that."

Duleri agrees. "We never should have trusted him to help us."

Now that right there gets my back up. "He did help you!" I tell em, not sure exactly why I was so mad aside from I was there and I know how scairt Casimir'd been. Well it's all very merry to have sympathy, but it also stands that if this had been His Jarlness insteader Duleri shoutin at me, this is what I would've said if I weren't too much of a coward to stand up for myself. "He was scairt, damn you, and maybe he weren't comfortable with what you was askin him to do, and maybe he knew his life wasn't worth disagreein, and if he stuffed up or if he did his duty it would all end up with him dead and runnin was the only chance he could see! So shut yer bloody stupid fat mouth, ya old hack!"

For a long minute, Thorek and Duleri just stand there, gawkin at me.

"And what's more," I jab a finger at em, "Fuck you."

"Why I oughta-"

With a WHUMPH the lights go out. In darkness we stand stock still with the bass like a mother's pulse booming all around us. I'm sweatin. It feels too hot on my cold body.

Then the music starts. Electric. Like electric dragons fightin, that's just how it sounds. I can hear movement in the room behind us, many groans and shufflin bodies. Green light casts a sudden, deathly pall over the chamber.

There is a squeal which makes us all moan. Erandur's voice crashes through the long stone hallways. "Er, how do I turn this thing on? That should be wight. Can eveweybody hear me?"

A chorus of groans goes up behind us. The electric dragons pause their deathmatch while Erandur speaks. I glance over me shoulder at the next room, the one with the bodies, which are now fully vertically-enabled Orcs and priests. Oh shi-

"Awwight! Let's get this party started!"

A squeal as Erandur leaves. The bass throbs and the dragons explode into battle. The floor rattles beneath our feet. Shoutin voices from the next room; everybody dancin, everybody fightin. Brothers Duleri and Thorek demand my attention.

"So, friend of Casimir the Betrayer," Duleri sneers, "What will you do now? Trapped beneath the earth with a hundred enemies?"

"It's a walk in the park fer me," I tell him.

There's something odd about the way the brothers are movin. Sorta swayin. Movement starts from the hips, tangles the legs, loosens the shoulders. It ain't quite a dance, but it sure ain't standin still neither. They're still stumblin a bit and quite groggy from the mist, but for a couple buffoons prob'ly half-slaughtered on methamphetamines, they're doin a brilliant impersonation of the waltz.

"What's up with you blokes, then?" I say, cause I'm a mean bastard sometimes and the brothers' faces are twitchin.

"Urg," Thorek grunts, "Haf...ta... dance."

It's hard to hear him over the thrummin bass. The Orcs've taken up their drums. People are shoutin n stampin their feet. I back away. Duleri and Thorek are jivin menacingly t'wards me. Summin touches my shoulder and I nearly go through the roof.

"It's me." Erandur swaggers up on me right. "Thank you, Skole."

One eye on Thorek, the other on Duleri, I says, "Watch yourself. These chavs are dangerous and ready to dance."

Erandur rolls up his short sleeves, and steps up to meet his destiny.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_ I love music, but last week my brother forced me to watch High School Musical 3 (supposedly for the sake of the children, but we know the truth, he's in love with Zac Effron). Longest 112 minutes of my life. There was just so much... singing. (shudders)  
>Incidentally, this is the second last chapter of this part, and then we get into the guts of the beast.<br>Love y'all, until next week!


	13. The Skull of Corruption

_A/N:_ Away after a week! What is this, a paid vacation? Actually I had the flu and was too delirious to type anything. Sorry!

Thanks to everyone who commented on Chapter 12, telling me what you did and didn't like. I realise now there were a lot of references which broke the fourth wall. I didn't think much of this at the time I wrote it, so knowing that it didn't work for you fantastic people is very useful for future ventures. Anyway, it was a sort of odd one out, take that as the bitter pill of comfort.

Also, we're up to the last chapter of this part! Whoo! So enjoy it, y'all! 3

* * *

><p>The Skull of Corruption<p>

* * *

><p>Bass shakes the walls. Light, green and red and purple and gold, strobes the decayin black stone. Behind us an army of leathery Orcs dances off against a buncha skirt-wearin dark priests.<p>

Directly across from us is the chamber containing one Skull of Corruption, courtesy of the Daedric Lord Vaermina, which accordin to my friend Erandur has been devourin the memories of the nearby Dawnstar townsfolk, as well as makin all these ugly motherfuckers dance. Needless to say, it has to be stopped.

Problem is, tween us and the Skull of Corruption are these two blokes sinisterly jivin, and fer a change I'm not the one in trouble.

I say to Erandur I say, "Watch yourself. These chavs are dangerous and ready to dance."

Erandur rolls up his sleeves, and steps up to meet Brothers Duleri and Thorek.

"Atone," rasps Duleri, wigglin like he's tryn to get his loincloth off without the use'a his hands. "For your sins, Brother Casimir, atone!"

"I plan to," says Erandur, and then punches Duleri in the mouth and legs it for the Skull.

"Get him!" Thorek roars, the moment afore I shove him into the wall and kick Duleri in the balls. Thorek staggers back from the wall and hobbles after me. Good thing he's still a bit dopey; I floor my boot in his guts and as he falls bring both fists down on his neck like I seen done at the slave fights. Thorek goes down like a sack fuller shit and I hop to after Eran.

Soon's I set foot in the Skull's chamber I see him, up on the alter with the staff I s'pose is Vaermina's disco stick. What with his face and the purple light he looks mightily evil.

"Give me thirty seconds, Skole!" he yells, movin his hands over the ward blockin the Skull. "I'll bweak this bawier and banish this foul piece!"

"Hey- hey! What's this voice?" But Erandur is too focused on the barrier to listen. The voice, a fittin orator for the death-matchin electric dragons and the war drums, bypasses my ears in favour of whispering directly into my head.

_Kill him. Take me for yourself. He will betray you as he betrayed the others. Kill him!_

Why would Eran turn his back on me if he was about to betray me? The voice dun care. It's the voice of the Skull.

_Kill! He'll never see you coming. Don't let him banish me. You and I could take this world together. Kill!_

The voice is persuasive, I'll give it that. Eran is so wrapped up in dispellin the barrier that I know he'd never hear me sneak up behind him with the sword, or even that heavy bit of rock there. The rock is already in my hand. I can't recall pickin it up. By the Nine I just wanna be outta this Oblivion pit with these damn dancin Orcs and priests and this stupid, nagging voice. It sounds like my sister.

_Kill. Kill! KILL! You want it, don't you? To be free of all your worries and cares? Let the weapon make the man. Let us make history together. Kill-_

"SHUT UP!" I roar, and it ain't my indoor voice but the Shout of the Dovah. "I DUN KNOW WHAT I WANT, ALL RIGHT! I NEED TIME TO THINK!"

You won't believe this, but I swear it's true. The strobing light bends back in on itself, and the sound does too, and with a tremendous gargle is all sloshes into the crystal skull cappin the staff on the alter.

With a shout Erandur leaps back. The staff threatens to explode. The voice in me head is now an ungodly shriek. With one final rattling screech it's thrown to the floor, where it chases Eran down the alter stairs and then lays still.

"Fuck," says Erandur.

I'm inclined to agree. Eran picks the Skull of Corruption from the floor. I look around, expectin Duleri and Thorek to pounce. Instead I find they've been splattered in a rather innovative design along the floor and walls of the antechamber.

"Um," I says, seein Erandur lookin at me. "My bad. Sometimes that happens."

"With the," Eran gestures at his throat, "the Shout?"

"Yeah. Uh. Are you all right?"

He checks himself over. "Appawently. I didn't feel a thing. Maybe because I'm a good person?"

This from a dark elf holdin the Skull of Corruption in the basement of a Daedric temple packed full of corpses.

"Well anything is possible," I tell him. "Are you taking that with you?"

He nods. "I'll cleanse it with the love of Mawa."

I was thinkin more a persuasive trinket like that could score us a couple drinks. "Righteo. Before that happens, what say you n me cleanse our livers with the love of mead?"

We pick our way carefully through the splattered remains of Thorek and Duleri. Uh oh. I forgot about the rest. Now the music and lights are out, leaving only the glow of soul gems packed in braziers around the walls, the dance-off is out and the dancers are looking to brawl. Erandur and I stop dead in the doorway. All I can see is purple flashes of either the best brawl of the night or the best orgy of the century.

Erandur nudges me. "Want to wun for it?"

I nod. "Reckon I do."

From one coward to another, we run.

Night was fallin, and Windpeak Inn was packed to the teef.

Erandur n me had walked in poor, but not brainless. Soon's we figured out we could use the Skull of Corruption into manipulating the barkeep into givin us free drinks, we became kings of the domain to whom money (or lack thereof) was no obstacle.

We've got us a table in the corner and for the time we was bein discreet about our kingship. Sooner or later we'd get rowdy and have the bitches flockin over for their spirits with little umbrellas in, then prob'ly get beat up by the barkeep and turfed out, but for now we're content. I'm watchin folks come in the door off shift from the mines, Erandur's countin the three coins in his pocket and tryn to make it a legit cask of Black-Briar's.

My eyes keep driftin to a potted plant in the corner of the inn.

"I'm sure that weren't there this morning."

Erandur looks, but his attention is more for the two busty miners striding in after the end of a busy day. Tomorrow we'd get shouted drinks, once tonight had proved the nightmares were over. Tonight we'd get nada, and no bitches neither.

"Another dwink?" Erandur wonders, givin up on his three bits of gold.

"Sure. Put it on the table. I's gotta go the little girl's room."

So off I tot t'wards the door. Is it me or has the potted plant moved up a yard or two? It's real funny lookin, this plant. Big pot, large enough to hide a kid behind. Leaves real thick and dangling with what appears to be exotic fruit salad. I ain't no botanist but I'm guessin that shit dun spring up in the snow every day.

I scoot on over a little closer to it. Ain't nobody watchin me much. Now I'm closer, I can see the leaves is no more'n blocks of wood carved n painted. What's more, there's a pair of eyes starin back at me from betwixt two bananas.

"I see," I tell the bar, "It's a fruit salad tree." Then I walk out the door and round back to the outhouse.

I'm standing there in the cannery, handlin the equipment with care (I'm still sore after all that anticlimactic tantric sex in Whiterun), when there comes a tap on my shoulder. My body suddenly feels like granite chiselled by ice into the shape of a man. My eyes near pierce the backer me head so I dun have to turn around.

"You're the one they're all talking about. The Dovahkiin."

A soft, womanly tone. I hear a rustlin of leaves and make myself check the outhouse door. The potted plant is behind me. No wonder I felt a pricklin on my spine – there's a pineapple pressed up against me neck. Not to mention the loo, me, the plant and – please tell me there's someone – whoever's behind the plant are all jammed in the outhouse.

"Where did you hear a ridiculous thing like that?" I say, pullin up me breeches.

"No! Leave it!" A hand catches me elbow. "We must act natural. You never know who may be watching."

I've had a lot on my plate lately and dun really need to add bein stalked by paranoid fruit salad plants to the list. I wreath my arm away. "Who the Oblivion else d'you reckon is gonna fit in here, lady? Whaddaya want?"

"To speak to the Dovahkiin, of course. But not now. There are too many people here now. We'll wait til it's private. Take this." Somethin light n sharp hits me on the ear. "See you soon."

By time I've picked the paper sparrow off the floor, the potted plant is gone.

The rest of the night is spent not drinkin enough. At some point tween midnight n dawn Erandur n me stagger up the mountainside to Nightclubber Temple, and I get Eran's straw bed while he falls face first on the flagstones. It must be that paranoia is contagious, cause every shadow looks t'me like a potted plant...

I dream about fishes again, cept this time the fishes are seahorses, ugly ones, and I can hear this beat deeper in the sea, and all the seahorses are doing the waltz...

"Skole!"

I scream. I'm sittin bolt upright on the straw and there's a priest in dark yella standin over me. Oh shit, I've died.

"You're not dead," chides the priest when I convey to him this most sinister dismay. "It's me, Erandur. I woused you because I thought you may be hungwy. Twoll leg?" He holds up what is certainly a barbequed troll's leg.

"No. No thanks." I do a quick check around for potted plants. I dun find any and the tension flounders outta me.

Eran shrugs. "Suit yourself. You're missing out."

He wanders off across the Temple annexe gnawin on the leg. It's morning and the doors are open. Erandur seems to be tidyin up the place. I hafta wonder why: were it me I'd stick a lid on it and call it a tomb.

Once I've gone through my new routine of checkin all me limbs are attached, I climb on up outta bed and join Erandur, who's dusting the junk on the floor.

"Whatcha doin?"

He's quite happily hummin the Wedding March, which is somehow even worse'n the Funeral March. "Just cleaning this old place up. Who knows? I might move in."

"To _here?_ It's a graveyard downstairs, and _that's _sayin you can keep that ward done closed for long enough those blokes down there starve to death or eat each other! Whaddaya gonna say if the city guards wanna open up this place? _You_ kilt em!"

Erandur frowns at me. "You're over dwamatising it. I told you alweady the love of Mawa will take the others downstairs with a peaceful heart attack."

"That's the biggest fib I've ever heard in my life."

"It is not," Erandur snaps. He glowers at me a moment before returning with gusto to the dusting.

"Come on, cut it out. Why dun you come with me? I'm goin to the," I wave my hands about vaguely, "Thing t'do the other thing. I mean I's got a couple things want followin up on, this pair'a women's undies, this note the plant gave me. Nothin you'd get arrested for."

Except maybe the undies. And the note.

"I dunno," Eran pulls a face, "I'm not weally in a questy mood this week."

"How about an investigative mood?" I search my pockets for nearly a minute before extractin the paper sparrow from the general debris. "Dear Dovahkiin. I want to help you rid Skyrim of dragons. Meet me at Windpeak Inn between 10.15 and 10.17am on the 7th of First Seed, 4E 201."

Erandur's expression is incredulous, if I do know the meaniner the word. "A plant wants to help you wid Skywim of dwagons?"

"Yes. It was a sort of exotic fruit salad tree."

"Ah."

We stare at one another. Judgin by Eran's demeanour, he wants to stay in Nightclubber Temple with a buncher wannabe zombies about as much as I want to rid Skyrim of dragons with only a potted plant for company. I'd offer to swap him jobs cept I ain't none too crash-hot on zombies neither.

"Come with me," I say at last, tryn for persuasive, and if that fails intimidatin. "If we can't steal alotta shit and kick alotta ass, at least we can get laid in every city."

Somewhat severely, Erandur replies, "I'll accompany you, if only to guide the light of Lady Mara upon your poor lost soul."

"Good luck with that. So. What's the time?"

Erandur glances at the shadows on the snow outside. "Ten, maybe?"

I smack him on the arm, callin as I run out the door, "Pack your stuff – I'll see you at the inn!"

Fifteen minutes later I roll my carcass into Windpeak Inn. There ain't a potted plant in sight. Damnation, I dun care. I slide bonelessly into a seat and motion fer the barkeep t'bring me a drink.

I'm lost in the whorls on the wooden table, slowly regainin me breath, when a tankard slaps down in fronna me. I mutter a thanks.

"Don't thank me yet, Dovahkiin." With a rustle of dry leaves the potted plant sits down across the table. I can just make out two bright, hard eyes tween the fruit. "Skyrim suffers yet from the hideous dragons. When we're rid of them, _that's _when you can thank me."

"You do know dragons breathe fire," I retort, "I wanna know how you, a plant, plans to defend yerself against yer greatest weakness."

The keen eyes narrow into slits. A mandarin jostles angrily. "I'm not really a plant, you fool. This is my disguise."

"Well I dun think it's fair. Why should you get a disguise when I don't? You know who I am; the courtesy thing is to tell me who you are."

The leaves rustle smugly. "If you didn't dress appropriately to conceal your identity, that's your concern, not mine."

"What about the people behind you? Can't they see the backer ya?" I wave at the barkeep. "Hey! Who's this?"

"Delphine," he calls, "She's mad as a," and he cranks a finger round his ear.

"I am not," Delphine says hotly. "I'm cautious in appropriate proportion to the danger of my identity being known."

Which was 100%, now that I'd been told.

Wantin to know if Delphine had anything sensible whatsoever to say, I quiz, "You said somethin bout dragons. You're lookin to help me?"

I'd disappoint her later. After a second's consideration, Delphine eases a long, thin dagger from between the leaves of her disguise. The blade protrudes and then the handle, until the dagger's tip is inches from me nose.

"A dagger?" Should I take it? Certainly crazy Delphine shouldn't be left with sharp toys.

"A blade. Like me. Ah hah!" Delphine leaps up from behind the potted plant, all legs and hips and boobs wrapped up in nothin more than a chainmail bikini and leather heels. "I am the last living member of the Emperor's Blades, professional dragon slayer by job description and belief. But too many people know who I am. Too many enemies are after my head. That's why I've chosen you. You,Dovahkiin, you will help me rid Skyrim of this awful curse."

"Curse?" I feel weak at the knees.

"The dragons of legend are awakening all around Skyrim. Hasn't it occurred to you that this isn't the natural order of things? Something has happened to cause it. Someone out there wants dragons populating the skies, enslaving Nords and their fellow mortal beings." She glowers at me, and boy, what a glower. "Maybe Ulfric. Maybe the Thalmor-"

Maybe the man on the moon. The door bangs open and Erandur ambles in carrying three suitcases, the Skull of Corruption and a backpack, lookin far too bright in his lairy short-sleeve shirt and corduroy shorts. And sandals. By Talos I thought I'd hallucinated that.

"So? Are we off to slay the dragons?" he calls, coming up to me and crazy Delphine on the table. He gives her the twice over. "I see you're the plant."

Delphine, aghast, drops back into the cover of the leaves. "Too many elves know who I am," she hisses at me, "They all want me dead. Even now they're after me. You can't comprehend what a risk it was for me to come here – I can't risk making any more visible actions for a while. You, Dovahkiin, and you, gentle imbecile, will have to carry out the next mission in my stead."

"What's that then?" Eran wonders, helping himself to my beer.

Then Delphine says somethin that makes my flesh crawl. Even the fact she delivers it in the guise of an exotic fruit tree can't lessen the blow.

"Let's start big. You're going to infiltrate the Thalmor embassy."

I'm about to argue when she peers around the plant. A shadow has fallen over the door. Elves in silver and gold robes, certainly not miners. They mutter amongst themselves. One nods to our table. I see Delphine's throat work. She catches my eye.

"Solitude. I'll find you there."

"Wait, Del-"

I'm cut short by a burst of lightning and a battle cry as Delphine leaps from behind the plant and charges the Thalmor. They fling another lightning bolt her way. She ducks it and electricity splinters our table instead.

"Oi, oi!" Erandur cries, holding his tankard over his head, "Watch out, mate!"

He's answered by a crash of thunder. Delphine has her dagger and is in the midst of the Thalmor, cutting and slashing as they near break their backs to distance themselves from her. Another Thalmor mage joins in the confusion, hurling ice at Delphine, taking out the doorway, the barkeep and another Thalmor instead. A stray lightning bolt explodes the tankard in Erandur's hands.

"Right, that does it!" he snarls. "Prepare to die, you aristocratic bastards!"

He leaps into battle with the Skull in one hand and a fire spell in the other. WHOOSH! Fire ward straight through the middle of the Thalmor. I want to hide, but beer has been spilt, and my honour as a Nord will not let me rest easy until its waste is atoned. I hook the Dwarven sword from my belt and hurry after Erandur.

WHACK! Some bloody nob hits me in the ear. It's just a Thalmor, it doesn't hurt much. I twist and drive the sword into his belly. He gets a hand on my face and shouts the chant for lightning. I knee him in the nuts before he's any more than tickled me, rip the sword from his guts and jam it into his throat as he goes down.

Something hard hits the back of me head. Next thing I know I'm sliding down the wall. A grinning Thalmor stands over me. Bastard. I wave my sword at him but it's no longer in my hand. Oh, I see. He has it. He raises it up and just as he's driving it down a blade emerges from his chest. The Thalmor glances down. His eyes roll back in his head. And he's dead.

"Now do you believe me?" Delphine demanded, letting the elf slide off her dagger. She offers me a hand up, and no way I'm refusing anyone strong enough to force a dagger though a man's entire body. "I'm a wanted woman. I want to save Skyrim, but to do it I'll need your help."

A Thalmor jumps for us. I punch him in the throat. He goes down like a sack of shit and then screams as Erandur sets him on fire.

"Let's say I believe you," I says to Delphine. "What would the Thalmor want with the dragons?"

The barkeep isn't out of this fight either. He collects two Thalmor with one massive sweep of a wooden stool. There are elvish bodies all over the entryway, but that seems to be the last of the vertical ones.

"Right," says the barkeep. "Teach them for disturbing my customers. As you were." He nods to us, then sticks his head out the door to call the guards to help him hide the bodies.

Delphine draws me into a corner. Limpin a bit, Eran follows. He has a bolt of ice stickin out of his leg, but it doesn't seem to be stoppin him much. He holds it out near the fireplace to defrost.

"The Thalmor have long been interested in adding to their hold on Skyrim. They want power, and they hate the Nords. They've been known to use Ulfric, although I no longer believe that's the case. Either way, they want the Nords out of Skyrim. Not much better way to shake things up than introduce a mortal's natural predator, is there?" Delphine smiles darkly. I would say her face is pretty, but I'm too busy admirin her tiny bikini.

"Couldn't they just back the 'perials in the war?" I wondered. "With their help the silvers might even win."

"Hm, it could be. Like I said, I'm not certain. But if there's anyone in Tamriel with the capability and desire to bring about a second age of dragons, it's the Thalmor. I can't go to the embassy myself, I'm too well known. But you... tell me you _are _interested in helping Skyrim."

"Uh." I glance at Erandur, who nods. I look around the bar, which is practically deserted at this time of day, but contains elements of all the things I love; drinkin, dancin, talkin shit, drinkin. Is it worth saving? More than that, is it worth riskin my life for? Skyrim's the only place I've ever known, and while it's never been kind, it's always put up with me. It's let me be lazy, let me play, get wasted, dance, screw, be a coward, pretend to be a man, named me Dovahjun and finally given my pitiful existence a purpose. Surely that was worth something. Just one little favour in return, at the very least.

Seein my distress, Delphine adds, "There's a party at the embassy in coming weeks. It's no great issue to put your name on the list, and have you do a little asking around."

"You want me to party with Thalmor?"

"Essentially. Finding out the information would also be handy."

I stuck out my hand. "You've got yourself a Dovahkiin."

* * *

><p><em>AN:_ Happy?

There's going to be a short break and the next part might be submitted as a new story. Anyway, we're well into this pig, so let's keep kicking our way to daylight... or something.  
>Thank you all, love you all for your support, hope to see you soon!<p>

Shufflekiin - watch out for it!


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